


What We Owe To Each Other

by WardsAreFunctioning



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition, The Good Place (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - The Good Place (TV) Fusion, F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-04
Updated: 2019-10-14
Packaged: 2020-06-09 16:36:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 35,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19479808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WardsAreFunctioning/pseuds/WardsAreFunctioning
Summary: Solas creates a duplicate of Alexius's amulet, and is able to reset everything back to the beginning of the Inquisition, at Haven. Of course, if the Champion of Kirkwall and her friends keep interfering with his plans, hemayhave to do it more than once.A crossover between Dragon Age and the second season of the Good Place!Warning: spoilers ahead for both Dragon Age: Inquisition (through the Trespasser DLC) and The Good Place (through 2x01 so far)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [beaubashley](https://archiveofourown.org/users/beaubashley/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work goes out to **beaubashley** , with whom I've been making "Solas is Michael from the Good Place" jokes for the past two weeks. A couple of other things fell into place, and before I knew it, the drabble before you was born. Enjoy!

**_Excerpt from Solas’s Journal_ **

_Haven, 9:41 Dragon._

_Attempt 2_

_The ritual was successful. After nearly a decade of work, I was able to create an adequate duplication of Alexius’s amulet. The efforts against me, led by the former Champion of Kirkwall, did not succeed._

_The only weakness I’ve detected in this spell is that I cannot go back to any time before the orb was activated; thus the explosion at the Temple of Sacred Ashes has become a fixed point. However, I was able to reach Haven quickly enough to make myself indispensable. I have plenty of time to change the tides of the past, and retrieve the unlocked orb without it being destroyed._

_I am walking a dangerous line. Last time, I failed in retrieving the orb, but the Inquisition succeeded in killing Corypheus, against strong odds. The darkspawn magister cannot survive if I am to prevail. I will need to make sure as many things are similar to the events of my previous attempt as possible. Without Redcliffe, or the fall of Haven, would the Inquisitor succeed in growing stronger over time? Without the death of Celene, would the Inquisition gain enough power to triumph at the Temple of Mythal?_

_Perhaps not._

_In any event, Leliana was accommodating and has once again provided me with a hut of my own. I am content to sit back, for now, and help where I can._

_With any luck, the orb will be mine within a year._

_-Solas_

* * *

Eleanor Hawke sat on her bedroll, in the middle of the desert, reading the latest letter she’d received from Varric. He was alive, at least. _Thank the Maker._ If he’d survived Kirkwall only to blow up in a foreign country, she’d be pretty peeved. Who else would keep her abreast of events in the south? Not Aveline, whose fondness for Hawke seemed more a coincidence than an understanding. Not Merrill, who had been cold and distant ever since Hawke had kept the Arulin'Holm from her. Not Fenris, who’d died defending Meredith Stannard. Not Isabela, who'd disappeared the night Hawke killed the Arishok. 

Certainly not _Ser Carver_ of the fucking _Templar Order._

She put the letter down with a frown and stared off into the middle distance, chewing her fingernail. Should she be offering her services? She didn’t _want_ to offer her services. She’d tried that angle for six years, and look where it got her. Friendless and alone, in the middle of the Blighted desert, hundreds of miles away from a good source of shrimp. 

_Probably best that I don’t, then,_ she decided. Things had a tendency to go a little sideways whenever she got involved, and everyone in Thedas had probably had enough sideways for a lifetime. At least _this_ explosion, no one could blame on _her._

 _Wellllll,_ she thought to herself, wincing. 

An image flashed in her mind, of Anders giving her one last look before fleeing into the dark as the city burned around them. 

Okay. Maybe this _was_ her fault. Could Anders have done it? Blowing up religious institutions was sort of his _modus operandus._ She’d given up the chance to kill him, once. She almost _had_ killed him, in fact. He’d asked so nicely, and by that point, she was so very tired. 

But then she’d realized she’d be doing something Sebastian approved of, and frankly, fuck that guy. 

On the other hand, the Conclave was exactly the sort of thing Anders had been hoping to bring about. Wasn't it? Peace. Interference from the Divine. _Discussion._ She made a face. That’s why it was better she _not_ help. She’d never been very good at talking to people. 

Not to mention, she had it on good authority that Cassandra Pentaghast wanted to give her _actual responsibilities._ Why, Hawke had no idea. They probably wouldn't even pay her. People tended to forget that, despite the lofty title, Hawke was just a mercenary at the end of the day. That's all she ever had been, and all she ever would be. Killing the Arishok had been the exception, not the rule. She hadn't even been able to save her own family, as Carver was so fond of reminding her. 

There was a brush of magic. A tall boy in a hat appeared before her. Hawke let out a curse. She leapt to her feet and pulled out her staff. 

“Wait!” the boy said, holding up his hands. “My name is Cole. I’m here to help.”

Hawke narrowed her eyes at him. “Where did you come from?”

“I was with the templars,” the boy said. Hawke’s eyes narrowed further. She took a menacing step toward him. “No! Not like that!” He peered at her. _“Solid steel, stretched plate covering his chest. That_ _symbol_ _stamped into it like a brand. You used to think Father would hate seeing it as much as you do, but these days, you aren’t so sure.”_ He smiled. “See! You know good templars, too.”

Hawke lowered her staff a fraction. It sounded like he was talking about Carver. _“What?”_ she exclaimed more than asked. 

“Here,” the boy said, thrusting a piece of paper into her face. 

“What's this?” she said, confused. It was a torn title page from a copy of _Tale of the Champion._ Someone had scribbled a quick note on it. _“Hawke,”_ she read out loud. _“Find Curly.”_

Hawke blinked. She looked up and asked, “Who the fuck is Curly?”

But the boy had disappeared.

“Andraste's ass,” she muttered to the empty air. She strapped her staff to her back again and sat down, rubbing her face as she reread the note. She shook her head. “And I thought the weird shit was over.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so, a few notes:
> 
> \- An earlier version of this had Eleanor's name as Eileen, because in my Jane Austen AU I already have an Elinor Hawke. However, I decided that if having multiple characters with the same name was good enough for Austen, it's good enough for me.  
> \- Yes, Cullen is Chidi. Hawke's struggle couldn't be not caring enough, so instead I think what she needs to learn is how to exist and thrive after trauma.  
> \- I have a lot of projects going on right now, plus life stuff, so I'll probably just update this in quick bursts. 
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoyed :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It continues!

**_Excerpt from Solas’s Journal_ **

_Skyhold, 9:41 Dragon._

_Attempt 2_

_After a few minor setbacks, the second attempt is proceeding well._

_Corypheus attacked Haven, just as planned. After its destruction, I led Trevelyan to Skyhold. She has been offered the role of Inquisitor and accepted her title. Today, Leliana suggested that the Inquisition attend the ball at the Winter Palace in Halamshiral in three months time._

_Cole has joined us. While a part of me is pleased to see him, it hurts that he does not remember me. I have to shield that part of myself from him. It is a shame. Erasing his memory was the only way forward._

_I could not prevent the recruitment of Sera, nor was I able to stop Varric from reaching out to the Champion. I_ _was able to send Hawke’s Warden contact on a distant quest that will prevent her from joining us. Hopefully this will slow the research that was done on the orb and red lyrium while she was briefly at Skyhold. _

_I am not_ _too worried. The four people who nearly stopped me - Hawke, Cullen, Trevelyan, and Sera - had several years of time and research on their side that they will not have this time. They knew of my plans; I had underestimated them and told Trevelyan the truth. _

_I will not make that mistake again._

_-Solas_

* * *

For several months, Hawke ignored the piece of paper. It was the standard way she handled things these days. She could not quite bring herself to throw it away, or burn it, but she folded it up into a tiny little square and shoved it into the bottom of her pack.

Out of sight, out of mind. 

Then, one day, she visited the merchant’s stand tucked under the canyon near her campsite. She bought supplies there about once a month. Why a man would set up a trade post in the middle of the Hissing Wastes of all places was beyond her, but it was a lucky thing, and she wasn’t going to spit good fortune in the face the few times it remembered she existed. 

After doing business with the merchant, and patting his dog on the head, she asked if there was any news for her. 

“Aye, serah,” he said, holding out a small stack of letters. 

She thanked him. She found a comfortable rock, sat down, and began to read. 

Frowning, she opened Alistair’s letter first. Red lyrium had been the one threat she could not bring herself to brush aside. The fact that Varric still owned a slice of the original statue made her... well, more than a little nervous. As it had been found in the Deep Roads, she wondered if the Wardens might know something. Of the few Wardens she knew well enough to contact, only Alistair had responded.

Then the Order disappeared. Luckily, Alistair kept sending letters, and she was able to tell him a bit about Corypheus. He agreed with her concerns that the Wardens were being corrupted. In fact, he said Corypheus's abilities reminded him of those of an archdemon. He brought the idea up to his superiors. 

Apparently, _that_ had been a poor choice. According to his letter, he was now on the run. He asked if she knew of anyone who could help him.

Her mind uneasily drifted to the Inquisition. If Alistair was right, it was possible some part of Corypheus had survived. The thought turned her stomach. 

But so far, it was only a hunch. Even Alistair said as much. She’d prefer not to involve the Inquisition - or herself - until she had clear proof either way. 

She’d think on that later. She put the letter away.

The next one was from Carver. He expressed worry over some rumors he’d heard about the Southern templars. She rolled her eyes. He knew better than to ask for her aid when it came to the templars. If he was so curious, _he_ could investigate.

The last letter was from Varric. She pulled it from its envelope. The back, which she glanced at first, was a map of the Frostback mountains. There was an X drawn over a remote valley toward the south. She furrowed her brow and flipped it over. 

_H,_

_Look, I hate to send this letter just as much as you hate to receive it, but you’d better get your ass over here._ _Haven’s been destroyed. The templars are using red lyrium. And that’s not even the worst of it._

_Corypheus is back._

_-V_

Hawke squeezed her eyes shut. She let out a long breath. “Motherfucker,” she said out loud. 

* * *

During the long journey to Skyhold, Hawke revisited the note she’d received from the strange boy in the hat. She’d been in no mood for a wild goose chase before, but with Corypheus revived, she needed all the help she could get. Maybe this Curly person had more information.

Besides, trying to solve the mystery of the note was a far more pleasant pastime than reflecting on the fact that apparently, once again - without even meaning to - she’d ruined absolutely everything. 

And so each night, she unfolded the leaf of paper, looking for clues. Three short words written in great haste gave her very little to go on. Upon closer examination, she suspected it was her own handwriting, which was _exceptionally_ odd, because she had no memory of writing it. She’d never even read or owned a copy of _Tale of the Champion._ It seemed a little macabre to read about one’s failures. 

_“‘Find Curly,’”_ she muttered as she walked backwards down a dusty road in Orlais, one thumb stuck in the air. Carriages passed her by without notice. Tiny pebbles crunched under her boots as she considered. “But who is Curly?” she wondered out loud. 

There was no answer. She was talking to herself a lot these days. Probably not a good sign.

A week later, she was throwing dirt over her most recent campsite when a thought struck her. “Or _what_ is Curly?” she realized. “Maybe it’s not a person at all.” She paused and tilted her head, trying to think of curly things. “A type of Antivan noodle, perhaps?” she guessed. She shook the thought from her head. “Ridiculous.”

Five days after that, she strode up the side of a mountain and observed, “I can’t exactly go around asking people if they’re Curly.” She wrapped her thick cloak tighter around her shoulders. The Frostbacks were frigid this time of year; she was thankful she’d thought ahead. The incline beneath her sharpened, and she planted her staff in the snow to pull herself forward. “But they must be at Skyhold, mustn’t they?” She chewed her lip. “Maybe Varric will know.”

Finally, she crested the peak. Her eyebrows climbed as she got her first look at the Inquisition’s new fortress. It was massive - more like a city than a building. Red and yellow tents surrounded it, dots of color in the white snow. Flags fluttered in the wind above the gatehouse. 

“Well,” she sighed, leaning on her staff. “I guess I’ll find out soon enough.”

She began her descent to the valley below. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Let me know if you catch any errors, I'm pumping these out pretty quick without a beta.


	3. Chapter 3

**_Excerpt from Solas’s Journal_ **

_Skyhold, 9:41 Dragon._

_Attempt 2_

_The Champion has arrived._

_Her attitude concerns me. Last time, she was despondent. Self-involved. She and Trevelyan barely interacted, to begin with. She showed no interest in the other inhabitants of Skyhold. This time, she seems more… invested. Curious about her surroundings._

_I wonder what has changed._

_Perhaps I am wrong. Perhaps I simply paid her less heed, not realizing that she was a threat. Knowing what I know now, I have been watching her quite closely, and it could be that I am noticing more._

_Still, to prevent a situation in which she and Trevelyan bond too quickly, I have taken new measures. Trevelyan has an arrogant, jealous nature; I’ve made sure that she is often in earshot of people praising Hawke. I even ensured that she overhear a conversation between Cassandra and myself, in which the Seeker admitted Hawke was her first choice for Inquisitor._

_I can tell the Champion’s presence is grating on her already._

_As for Hawke’s relationship with Sera and the Commander, interference will not be necessary. It took those three_ _years _ _to even_ _begin working together. Sera’s attitude toward magic is enough to keep them apart for now. And given Cullen’s history with the Champion… well. I doubt they will exchange more than five words between the both of them. _

_-Solas_

* * *

Hawke leaned on the battlements of Skyhold and waited. It certainly was an impressive building. She wondered who’d built it. There was a strange sort of magic in the air that felt very old, but the architecture did not look Imperial. And it didn’t appear to be Alamarri or elven. 

Varric had gone to fetch the Inquisitor. She was wearing her old armor, which…. Well. It itched, for one thing. The weight of it felt uncanny after so many years. Varric’s idea, of course. Why she let him talk her into these things, she had no idea. 

That was a lie. Nine times out of ten, it was to get him to shut the fuck up. 

“Inquisitor,” she heard his voice say behind her. She turned, and her jaw nearly dropped open. Varric was approaching with a glamorous looking woman who stood at least five foot ten. Hawke couldn’t help but let her eyes flick over the woman’s body. _Wow._ As it turned out, the Herald of Andraste had curves _for days._ Varric smirked, catching the look in Hawke’s eye. “Meet Hawke. The Champion of Kirkwall.”

Hawke shot Varric a glare at that, but he just stared back at her evenly with that shit-eating grin of his. 

“Though I don’t use the title much anymore,” she added.

“Hawke,” Varric went on, ignoring her. “This is Inquisitor Tahani Trevelyan.” He picked up the mug of ale he’d left on the balustrade. “I figured you might have some friendly advice about Corypheus.” He raised an eyebrow at Hawke. “You and I did fight him, after all.”

She opened her mouth to respond, but Trevelyan cut her off with a beatific smile. “Before we begin,” the Inquisitor said, “can I just say how much I _loved_ reading your book? So charming. It’s just adorable how Varric here made protecting a little city like Kirkwall sound so important!" She tilted her head. “Well. Protecting a city for six or seven years, at least.” She let her smile turn apologetic. “Oh, but the boiling over was inevitable, really, wasn’t it? All that tension and anger, and just a tiny thing like _you_ to prevent it.” 

She gave Hawke a once-over. As she did, Hawke blinked at Varric. _What the fuck?_ she mouthed. He shrugged and took another sip of his ale. 

“How tall are you, exactly?” Trevelyan asked brightly. 

“Five feet even.”

Trevelyan laughed. “Goodness! And _you_ defeated the Arishok?”

Hawke crossed her arms. “That’s what they tell me,” she said dryly. 

Trevelyan threw a glance at Varric. “He must have been taller than the Iron Bull, surely.”

“Oh, yeah,” Varric confirmed. Then he backtracked, rubbing his chin. “Actually, it’s hard to say.” He frowned. “He really liked stairs.”

Trevelyan hummed and turned back to Hawke. “How _ever_ did you do it?”

Hawke tried to match Trevelyan’s bright smile, but felt more like a mabari baring its fangs. “Mostly by running in circles. Which, incidentally, is also my advice on fighting Corypheus. Not that you should take it. Varric’s right that _we_ fought him. Fought and _killed,_ in fact. But seeing as he didn’t stay dead, I’m not sure I can be considered an expert on the subject.”

Trevelyan seemed to relax a little at her self-deprecating tone. “I see,” she said, studying Hawke’s face. “Still. Any information you could share would be useful.”

Hawke looked back across the Skyhold courtyard with a frown. “Last time, he was able to use his darkspawn powers to… well, manipulate the Grey Wardens, somehow.”

“He got into their heads,” Varric added. “Turned them against each other.”

“With the Grey Wardens gone,” Hawke continued, “I can’t help but think he might be doing it again. Corrupting their minds.” She thought briefly of Anders’s struggles underneath Corypheus’s prison and prayed that she was wrong. Her mind turned to Alistair. “I have a friend in the Grey Wardens. Someone who was helping me research something else.” She winced. “Something I hoped was unrelated, but now…. I’m not so sure. His superiors did not like his research. He’s now being pursued by his own organization. Last I heard, he was hiding out in an old smuggler’s cave in Crestwood.”

“What were you two researching?”

Hawke met Trevelyan’s gaze. “Red lyrium.”

Trevelyan's face twisted sourly. “Ah. Yes. I’m familiar with the substance. Corypheus has an army of templars who appear to be using it.”

Hawke knew that from Varric’s letter, but hearing the words out loud still felt like a punch in the gut. The thought of Meredith Stannard’s glowing eyes duplicated across an entire army of templars made her shudder. She dropped her gaze. “Right. I'd hoped that particular rumor was false.”

“Do you know how he got access to the lyrium? And to the Order?”

Hawke shook her head. “Hopefully, my friend in the Wardens will know more.” 

Trevelyan nodded. “We’ll need to go to Crestwood ourselves, then.” She tapped her bottom lip, considering. “I have a hostage situation I need to deal with in the Fallow Mire first. We’ll leave once I return.” She flashed Hawke a sweet smile. “Hopefully, that will give _you_ enough time to get back into combat shape. It's been a few years since you last fought, I believe?”

Hawke straightened. “It has.”

“I thought so. Look at you!” Trevelyan squeezed her arm. “So skinny! Hardly any muscle at all.”

“Yes, well,” Hawke said tightly, aware her voice was approaching the dangerous territory. “Luckily, my connection to the Fade is as strong as ever.”

Trevelyan laughed as if Hawke had made an excellent joke. “Of course, of course.” She looked at Varric, delighted. _“Mages._ Aren't they just adorable?” Letting go of Hawke's arm, she reached out a hand and pressed her finger briefly on Hawke's nose. “Boop!” Hawke stared at her, speechless. “Anyway! I must be off to the war table. So much to do. Running all of Thedas is--. Oh, _you_ know how it is. On a much, much, much, much smaller scale. Ta-ta for now!”

Trevelyan left. A moment passed before either Hawke or Varric spoke. Finally, she turned to him. “She _booped_ me.”

“Hawke.”

“Varric, _she booped me on the nose.”_

“She’s just jealous.”

“Jealous?” Hawke said, her eyebrows climbing into her hair. “Jealous of _what?_ She’s the _Inquisitor.”_ She began ticking off her fingers. “She’s head of a massive organization. She owns this huge castle. She’s worshipped by her _own religion,_ and has already saved the world twice.” Hawke made a face. “She’s tall, she’s beautiful, she has a perfect ass, and the thickest, most kissable lips I have ever seen, and…. ” Hawke exhaled roughly. “And now I’m _complimenting_ her. And maybe a little turned on.”

Varric laughed, walking toward her. “Okay, yeah. But she’s still jealous.”

_“Why?”_

He gave her a proud grin. “Because whatever she is, she’s not _you,_ Hawke.”

That made Hawke smile despite herself. “Shut up, you idiot.” She gave him a fond shove with her elbow. “I missed you, buddy.” 

“Yeah. I missed you, too, Hawke.”

* * *

That night, Varric took Hawke to the Skyhold tavern. It was called The Herald’s Rest, because _of course it was._ There was a pretty bard with a lute, a just-surly-enough bartender, and three floors of extensive seating. 

Hawke grimaced. “Even her _pub_ looks better than mine.”

Varric smacked Hawke on the shoulder. “Hey!” he scolded. “The Hanged Man is perfect. Unimpeachable. There isn’t a better tavern in all of Thedas.”

“Clearly _you,”_ a familiar feminine voice drawled behind them, “have never been to Denerim.”

Hawke turned, not even bothering to hide the shock on her face. _“Isabela?”_

Isabela smirked. She leaned forward in her chair and held up her drink. “Hawke. Or is it Champion now? I’ve heard some interesting stories.”

Hawke gave her a dark look. “Yeah. You missed seeing that ceremony in person by about… oh, half an hour or so,” she said dryly. 

Isabela's expression turned uncharacteristically contrite. She glanced away. “I know,” she said seriously. “I’m sorry, Hawke. I shouldn’t have left, after…. Well, after everything.” She tapped the table to an unheard rhythm. “At the time, I thought it would be for the best. I’ve realized since that it probably wasn’t. If I could make things right, I would.”

Hawke sighed. Two years alone in the desert had put her in a charitable mood when it came to the mistakes of the past. She sat down in the chair across from her old friend, motioning for Varric to do the same. He did. 

“Well,” Hawke said slowly, keeping her tone overly casual, “I’m not saying it would make up for _everything, ..._ but a couple of rounds of drinks would be a good place to start.”

Isabela looked up. She blinked in surprise. Her lips quirked into a grateful smile. “Of course. What can I get for you?”

Hawke leaned her chin on her fist. “Oh, let’s see. How about the most expensive thing you can afford?”

“So, rat’s piss,” Varric said cheerfully.

Isabela chuckled as she stood. “You're on. I think you’ll both be pleasantly surprised,” she told them. She tapped her extravagant hat. “I’m an Admiral now, you know.”

She walked away, and Hawke looked at Varric curiously. “Pirates have admirals?”

“I guess so.”

“Does that mean she controls an entire fleet of pirates?”

“I don’t know, Hawke,” Varric said. “If I had to guess, I’d say it just means she gets to wear a fancy hat.”

Hawke looked across the room. “Well,” she said. “It is _very_ fancy.”

* * *

They talked deep into the night, drinking some shockingly good whiskey that Varric swore up and down he’d never seen at Skyhold before. After they caught up on each of their lives, they began to reminisce about the three years they’d spent together in Kirkwall. Isabela asked after Carver, and Merrill, and Aveline. For someone with absolutely no tact, she did an admirable job avoiding the topics of Anders and Fenris. 

At one point, however, she did lean forward with a twinkle in her eye. “You know who we should invite out next time?” she said, grinning. 

“Who?” Varric asked warily.

 _“Commander Cullen Rutherford._ He was in Kirkwall with us, after all.” 

“Ugh,” Hawke said, rolling her eyes. “I keep forgetting he’s _here.”_

“Oh, he’s not so bad,” Varric said. Hawke gave him a look. “Really, Hawke. He’s changed. A lot.”

“Mmm,” Isabela agreed. “Indeed. He went from a _maybe_ to a _yes.”_

“Not what I meant, Rivaini,” Varric said, though he laughed as he spoke. He turned back to Hawke. “You should talk to him while you’re here. I’m sure he’d like to make peace. Making peace is an important part of every good redemption arc.”

Hawke gave him a thumbs down and blew a raspberry with her lips. “That would be a big fat _no.”_

“You do owe him your life,” Varric reminded her. 

Hawke frowned. “That _barely_ counts. Anyone would have done the same, at that point.”

“I’m not sure that’s true,” Varric said. “He wasn’t the only Knight-Captain in the Gallows that night, you know.” Varric wasn’t wrong about that. Hawke grumbled, putting her head in her hands. She was getting a headache. Varric went on. “I’m just saying, you and Curly haven’t seen each other in a long time, and it might be good--”

Hawke’s head snapped up. Suddenly, despite the five drinks burning in her veins, she felt stone-cold sober. “Did you just say _Curly?”_ she asked, incredulous. 

Varric sighed, misinterpreting her outrage. “I know, I know. Look, I swear, I’ll come up with something for you. Some day. It’s just _Hawke_ is already such a great name--”

Hawke placed her hands on either side of her face and stared at nothing, horrified. _“Cullen_ is _Curly.”_

In her peripheral vision, she felt more than saw Isabela and Varric exchange a confused glance. “Yeah. You know what his hair used to look like.”

Hawke sagged. She placed her forehead on the cool wood of the table. She was somewhere between laughing and crying. 

Isabela placed a hand on her arm. “Are you alright, kitten?”

“Maybe we should have stuck with the rat’s piss,” Varric observed.

Cullen was Curly. _Of course,_ Hawke thought to herself bitterly. _Of course_ some mysterious, distant, amnesiac fucking version of herself wanted her to find Cullen fucking Rutherford and, presumably, ask him for fucking help. 

“Hawke?” Varric asked.

 _“Andraste’s ass,”_ she muttered to herself, ignoring him. “This might be worse than Corypheus.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boy, I'm just pumping these out, and I have no idea why. Let me know if you find any errors, grammatical or consistency. And thanks for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Janet voice: Fun fact! This chapter is longer than all three other chapters combined! 👍👍

**_Excerpt from Solas’s Journal_ **

_Skyhold, 9:41 Dragon._

_Attempt 2_

_The Inquisitor has left Skyhold for the Fallow Mire._

_My efforts to sow discord between her and the Champion seem to have been successful. Better yet, in what I assume must have been a show of dominance, Trevelyan took Varric with her, and sent their pirate friend north, leaving the Champion to her own devices. Hawke is beginning to act more like I expected. Despondent. Depressed._

_Lost._

_It is unfortunate that doing this was necessary. Despite her leading the forces that opposed me in the false future, I have always held a degree of respect for Hawke. She did nothing that I would not have done in her situation._

_An equivocal compliment, I am sure._

_But I cannot take risks. What’s done is done. Hopefully, with no Warden Tabris to draw her attention toward the orb, Hawke will return to retirement and find peace._

_-Solas_

* * *

Hawke needed to talk to Cullen. That much was obvious. It still took her three days to work up the courage. In her defense, Varric was there for two of those days, and she really, really, _really_ did not want her best friend and erstwhile biographer to think she was, for once, taking his advice and burying some sort of hatchet. Hawke did not bury hatchets. She clung to them bitterly, like a corpse that had gone into rigor mortis. The only two things she had in common with her brother were her pale blue eyes and the capacity to hold grudges long past the point of social acceptability. 

Incidentally, both of these traits seemed to come from the Amell side of the family. 

Unfortunately, she had no choice in the matter. There was a mysterious _Tale_ -reading, note-writing version of herself out there, and _that_ Eleanor Hawke wanted _this_ Eleanor Hawke to find Cullen Rutherford. Whatever the reason, it had to be important. 

Well. Either that, or Varric was playing an elaborate prank on her that involved ripping pages out of his own novels, forging her handwriting, and befriending strange looking boys that could vanish into thin air. 

The odds were about eighty-twenty, now that she thought about it. 

Either way, she knew she should at least _talk_ to Cullen before she made up her mind. 

Instead, she procrastinated. She kept her head low. These days, she preferred not to be responsible for anything more serious than a game of correspondence chess with Varric. Even introducing Trevelyan to Alistair was reaching her upper limits of involvement. Over the years, it had become clear that she had to focus on her own survival. Favors and good deeds were overrated. She was safest when no one owed her anything, and so was everyone else. 

Escaping attention was easier than one might have expected, for someone of Hawke’s notoriety. Thanks to Varric's book, most people assumed she’d be six foot three with shoulders the size of Denerim. No one gave the tiny blonde mage a second glance. By her count, there were only five people she truly needed to avoid - Cullen (obviously); the Ben-Hassrath spy (regardless of what the Qun said, she had to assume they still kept an eye on her); the redhead she'd convinced to leave Elthina in Kirkwall (ha! and hadn’t _that_ ended well?); Cassandra Pentaghast _(obviously);_ and a Carta dwarf named Luka (according to Varric, at least - Hawke had never met the woman, that she could recall). 

Trevelyan’s animosity helped. On Hawke’s first day at Skyhold, she was given a small room in the cellar, far out of everyone's way. There was a straw mattress, a wheel of cheese, and a dark stain near the door that smelled vaguely of vinegar. She suspected it might have been a pantry before her arrival. The illustrious Inquisitor also chose not to present Hawke to the war council. Or to the court. Or to anyone, really. 

"Let's wait until we have someone with actual information, shall we?"Trevelyan said with a cheerful smile.

While Hawke felt the full weight of the insult, she couldn't bring herself to mind much. If anything, she was grateful for the privacy. She'd been something of a recluse since fleeing Kirkwall. Being around so many people again made her anxious. Plus, once he’d seen her accommodations, Varric was kind enough to give her the key to his suite, meaning she spent most of her time cooped up in there, catching up on whatever reading she’d missed and drinking copious amounts of booze. 

On the bright side, the booze in question was very high quality. The Inquisitor, Hawke learned, was not just a stuck-up bitch; she was also a _connoisseur_ of some of the finest liquors and ales in Thedas. Hawke found her collection while exploring the halls around her room. After the _boop_ ing incident, Hawke decided it was only fair that she help herself to a couple of bottles. 

She assumed Justice and/or Vengeance would be proud. 

The day after Trevelyan dragged Varric out of Skyhold, Hawke folded. She found herself pacing outside Commander Cullen Rutherford's office, hesitating. She chewed her thumbnail. She’d seen him around, of course - training in the courtyard, or walking up on the battlements, or arguing with the redhead. He was impossible to miss in that absurd mantle of his. Every time she saw it coming, she turned around and walked in the opposite direction. 

Hawke paused. She sighed, fixing her eyes on the door. "You can do this," she said to herself under her breath. "Just don't call him Knight-Captain." _Maker._ That would _really_ start them off on the wrong food. She held up a fist. 

The door swung open before she could knock. Cullen Rutherford almost walked straight into her, a massive wall of fur and metal that could have flattened her in an instant if she hadn’t let out a startled yelp. He froze, blinked, then stared down at her in shock. She’d forgotten how tall he was. His mouth parted as if to speak, but the words took a moment to manifest. 

"Champion," he said, finally. 

Oh, _titles,_ was it? _"Commander,"_ she replied, crossing her arms. His brow lowered in confusion. She ran a hand through her hair, sighing. _Shit,_ she thought. _Wrong foot._ "We need to talk," she told him.

* * *

**Three days earlier**

Cullen Rutherford was having a miserable week. 

It had started with the matter of Haven’s dead. When the time came to gather names, Trevelyan was out in the field with Cassandra, Vivienne, and Sera. The council agreed that they could not wait for their new Inquisitor to return. Families needed to be told. Positions needed to be filled. Numbers needed to be written down for prosterity. 

He’d volunteered to put the list together himself. Truth be told, he had done it out of concern for his colleagues. Both Josephine and Leliana were up to the task, of course, but that was not the point. If he’d learned one thing from the Gallows, it was that capability and capacity were not the same thing. 

Leliana's open wounds were healing into scars. She saw enough blood on her hands already. The Divine’s death had hit her hardest, out of all of them. She was functioning, and yet, at times, Cullen saw a hard, bitter look in her eye that hit a little too close to home for him to ignore. 

Josephine, on the other hand, was still adjusting to the horrors of war. Despite the fact that Cullen was fairly sure that her reserved diplomacy was the glue holding the Inquisition together, Josephine was more or less an innocent. On more than one late night, when heading toward the back room in Haven’s chantry to work through his insomnia, he’d reached the door only to hear her quiet sobs within. It was obvious she’d never dealt with losing so many people, so suddenly. 

And, well. Cullen had. 

Even so, it was difficult to see the names of all those he’d failed written in stark, black ink. Cassandra told him not to be so hard on himself, but he could see no alternative. He was commander of the Inquisition forces. He should have _realized_ that whoever had caused the explosion would still be a threat. Instead, he’d let a growing group of soldiers and civilians become sitting ducks in a town that, infamously, the Hero of Ferelden had once wiped out with a mage, a dwarf, and a dog. 

Perhaps that was why the withdrawal symptoms were worsening. Last night, he’d barely slept at all. He’d had to forego the council meeting that the Inquisitor held upon her return, uncertain he could hide the shaking in his hands. Rylen attended in his place. 

And now…. Now _this._ The report he held trembled. He placed his elbow on his desk, steadying himself. 

According to the report, there was a red templar lieutenant hiding in the Dales. Trevelyan had been tracking him, and word of his activities was disturbing, to say the least. The man had convinced two separate parties that he was uncorrupted - that he was a templar loyal to the Chantry. By the letters they’d been able to recover, he was well-spoken and charming. 

Cullen pursed his lips. He'd assumed that the red lyrium templars had not just changed physically - that something about Corypheus, or the lyrium, or the Breach, had corrupted their willpower as well. He’d believed them to be little more than pawns - monsters, unable to think for themselves, standing and fighting at Corypheus’s beck and call without conscious thought. 

But this lieutenant was a thinking man. He had his wits about him. Which meant he _chose_ to follow Samson. He _chose_ his path with Corypheus. 

Cullen exhaled, placing the report down. A headache was building behind his eyes. He pinched his nose tightly. 

How many times could one man be so wrong?

The door swung open. Cullen looked up as Cassandra stalked into the room. He stood. Something about her stormy expression gave him pause. Cassandra often looked spirited, but her eyes were harder than normal today.

"Cassandra," he greeted. 

"Sit down, Cullen," she told him, waving a hand at his formality. She threw herself into the chair across from him and let out a growl of frustration. "I am going to _kill_ that dwarf.”

“Ah,” Cullen said, confused. He retook his seat. “Um. Which dwarf would that be, exactly?”

"Varric, of course," Cassandra snapped. “Who else could I mean?"

"I thought you two made peace. And there are several dwarves in the Inquisition now," Cullen explained. “Lace Harding, for one. And Dagna.”

Cassandra stared at him, incredulous. "Why on _earth_ would I want to kill Dagna? Or Harding?" 

"I don't know," Cullen admitted. "Frankly, I'm still not sure why you want to kill Varric."

"Because of the Champion!" Cassandra exclaimed, as if that was the most obvious thing in the world. Cullen stared her, not understanding. The tension in Cassandra's shoulders loosened. "Oh. You have not heard." She glanced away. "The Champion is at Skyhold."

 _“What?”_

"She arrived this afternoon.” Cassandra's nostrils flared. _“Varric_ has been in touch with her this whole time. Trevelyan met with her before any of us were even informed.” She threw a hand in the air. “And yet, now, no one can find her! I asked Trevelyan if I could speak with her, and she had the _gall_ to tell me to take it up with Varric. As if I am in any state to talk to Varric calmly!” She peered at him across his desk. _“You_ knew her. I don’t suppose you could--”

“No,” Cullen said instantly, cutting her off. “I…. That would be…. We weren't exactly friends.”

“You stood with her against Meredith, did you not?”

“Yes.” He looked down, not meeting Cassandra’s eye. “At the last possible moment,” he added. 

He felt more than saw Cassandra’s scrutinizing gaze. If Cullen were honest with himself, time had softened his views on Eleanor Hawke. It was not just that he’d drifted closer to her way of seeing the world - though that had certainly happened. It was that, with each passing year, their squabbles and disagreements grew more difficult to recall, while the shadow of her triumphs loomed ever larger. True, her methods were not always sound, and her motivations were often self-interested. But in the end, her actions spoke louder than anything else. 

In the end, she had been right. 

Given his behavior in Kirkwall, he doubted Hawke had gone through a similar change of opinion. Besides, behind his frustration and annoyance, he’d always admired her, a little. Even when he was not supposed to. She was resilient. She was beautiful. She did not give up. Whereas he doubted she’d ever felt anything but contempt toward him. She would see him as she’d always seen him: a steadfast Chantry boy whose presence was a less than welcome surprise. 

Cassandra’s anger seemed to fade as she observed his silence. “Very well,” she said. “However, if you _do_ happen to speak with her, would you urge her to come find me at her earliest convenience? It is… it is of _utmost importance.”_ Cullen came back to himself. He noticed Cassandra’s voice held a wistful quality to it, and raised an eyebrow, suddenly amused. Cassandra noticed. "What?" she asked.

“Nothing,” he said. Despite his headache, his lips threatened to twitch into a smile. “Shall I warn her to bring a pen? I assume you’ll want an autograph.”

Cassandra’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Are you _mocking_ me?”

“No,” Cullen replied quickly. “But your fondness for the Champion isn't exactly a secret, Cassandra.”

Cassandra stood, outraged. She stuck her chin into the air. “I am already committing one murder today, commander,” she said. “Try not to force me into a second.”

Cullen held back his chuckle until she’d left the room. 

* * *

For three days, Cullen saw neither hide nor hair of Hawke. He wasn’t terribly surprised that she wished to avoid _him;_ however, it was a little strange that she seemed to be avoiding everyone else, as well. Were they back in Kirkwall, she would have caused some kind of commotion by this point, surely. Or, at the very least, she’d have been seen out and about with some new groups of allies - a ragtag band of misfits everyone else had overlooked. She’d always been a social woman. 

Perhaps she was simply being discreet. 

Either way, he had little time to speculate about Hawke’s activities. He was the commander, and the Inquisition was at war. There was work to be done. 

On the third day, he was reading a report of Skyhold’s defenses. Jim came marching into his office, a missive in his hand. Cullen stopped himself from rolling his eyes. He’d told the recruits that they needed to knock a dozen times, but the lesson never seemed to stick. 

“Leliana said you’d want to see this, commander. Immediately.”

Jim had a tendency to be overdramatic, so Cullen wasn’t too concerned. He waved at the pile of missives on his desk. Jim placed it at the top and then waited, his hands behind his back. 

“Dismissed,” Cullen told him absently. He stroked his chin, still focused on Skyhold. It was better defended than Haven, certainly, but only because of its geographical position and the walls. They could survive a siege. However, surviving was not the only goal. He’d feel more confident if they had a way to fight back.

 _Trebuchets,_ his quill scratched in the top corner of the report. 

Once his door closed, he glanced at the missive Jim had left behind. He saw it was about the red templar lieutenant in the Dales. Snatching it up, he read it quickly. 

Leliana had been able to track down a name, and--

Cullen froze. He gripped the report tighter, abandoning the Skyhold schematic entirely. He read the name again, and then again, and then leaned back into his chair in shock. 

_Ser Carroll of Kinloch Hold._

“Maker’s breath,” Cullen whispered to himself. 

Once, a very long time ago, Carroll had been the ferryman at Kinloch. He was Cullen’s age, or thereabouts. The man had been a bit of a cad at times, and not the brightest of the bunch, but he was steadfast and loyal to the Order. They’d even been friends. After the Blight, Cullen lost touch with everyone at Kinloch. Carroll included. 

And now…. _Now…._

Cullen closed his eyes. The red lyrium must do _something,_ then. Carroll could not have decided to blindly follow Samson. It was not in his nature. Being around the lyrium must have… corrupted his mind, somehow. Left him vulnerable. Or perhaps they’d relied on his addiction, on his cravings. On how difficult the withdrawal could be. 

Cullen dropped the note and placed his head in his hands. "There, but for the grace of the Maker, go I,” he muttered. If someone like Carroll could fall, then he had little hope for the few friends and acquaintances whose whereabouts remained unknown. His chest grew tight. He considered how often he’d been around Meredith’s sword, those last three years in Kirkwall. Bile rose in his throat. 

What was he doing? _He_ could not lead the Inquisition forces. He was too close to the enemy. How many times had he considered taking lyrium this past month alone? He was an addict, suffering from withdrawal, whose very presence put the Inquisition at risk. 

Panic rose in him. He needed to find Cassandra. He stood quickly, his mind racing, and made for the door. 

As he threw it open, a sharp yelp stopped him in his tracks. Startled, he looked down to see Hawke standing there, one hand raised to knock. His mouth fell open. 

The years had not been kind to her. It was an uncharitable thought, he knew - she was still an attractive woman, she always had been - but her face was thinner, and there were dark shadows beneath her eyes that he’d never seen before. The robes she wore hung off her thin frame. Wherever she had been, it must not have been pleasant. 

Though he doubted he looked much better. 

“Champion,” he managed to spit out. 

It was the wrong thing to say. Her expression iced over. _“Commander,”_ she said in a hard voice that sounded all too familiar. He blinked at her, unsure how to respond. She winced, seeming to regret her tone, and ran her fingers through her hair. “We need to talk.”

“I’m afraid I’m in the middle of something--”

Hawke interrupted him. “We need to talk _now.”_ She put a hand on his chest and pushed him back into his office. Despite the fact that he could easily have resisted, he was surprised enough to let her guide him. She shut the door behind them. 

“What is it?” Cullen asked. 

She glanced around his room. “Are we alone?”

“To my knowledge, yes,” he replied. Hawke gave his ladder a suspicious look, and Cullen crossed his arms. “It leads to my bedchamber. No one is up there.”

Despite the tension, she snorted. “The more things change, the more they stay the same, huh?” she quipped.

Cullen sighed. “Hawke, if you’ve just come to insult me--”

“No,” Hawke said, growing serious again. She pulled a folded paper out of her pocket and handed it to him. “Listen. Six months ago, just after the explosion at the Conclave, a strange boy in a large hat appeared out of thin air. He handed me this. Now, it’s in my handwriting, but I’ve never seen it before _in my life._ Plus, I didn’t know that Varric was calling you Curly until I got here.”

“A strange boy in a large hat,” Cullen said, trying to keep up. Hawke had always spoken as if talking were a race and she was determined to get to the finish line first. “You mean Cole.”

“Cole?” Hawke asked.

Cole appeared with a brush of air. “Hello!” he said to both of them. 

Hawke jumped back, cursing. _“Andraste preserve me.”_ She blinked at the boy, her eyes wide and a hand on her chest. “What the fuck are _you_ doing here?”

“I live here.”

“You live… _here?_ At Skyhold?”

“Yes,” Cole confirmed. 

Cullen unfolded the paper as they spoke. It was a title page of _Tale of the Champion._ On it, a spiky, jagged script read _Hawke - Find Curly._ He frowned. 

Hawke was deflating as she stared at Cole. “Of course you do,” she said darkly. “And I suppose you’re friends with Varric Tethras.”

“I hope I am,” Cole said in an earnest tone. “He _helps_ me.” Hawke looked crushed. She squeezed her tired eyes shut and rubbed them with the heels of her hands. “Oh,” Cole said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make it worse.” Cole tilted his head. “But I don’t think he gave me the note. I don’t know who did. I found it in my pocket, before I met him.”

“Sure,” Hawke said. “Look. You can tell Varric I figured it out, and ha ha, very funny. He got me good this time.” When Cole opened his mouth to speak, she waved a hand. “Just scram, kid. I’m not in the mood.”

Cole hesitated, then disappeared.

Hawke snatched the note back from Cullen. Her smile was strained. “Well, commander. It appears our resident trickster is playing an elaborate prank on his dearest and least forgiving friend, and somehow, he roped you into it. My apologies. I’ll get out of your hair.” Her eyes flicked up, and a baffled look crossed her face. “Your.. curiously stylish hair.” She dropped her gaze again and smiled. “Nice chat. Hopefully, I don't see you.” 

She turned to leave. Cullen stopped her, grabbing her arm lightly. “Wait. Hawke. Let me see the note again.” She glanced over her shoulder and raised an eyebrow. “Please,” he added. Sighing, she handed it over. After a moment of studying it, he peered closer at the top right corner. “What’s this?” he asked. 

She came around, and he pulled it down to her level. “What’s what?”

He ran his finger over the area. “These faint black lines.”

“Oh.” She shrugged. “Smudges of ink, I assume. Varric’s hands are usually covered with the stuff.”

Cullen considered them. He handed her back the note and went to his bookcase. It took him only a moment to locate his copy of _Tale of the Champion._ He pulled it out and opened it to the title page. 

He breathed in sharply. 

“What is it?” Hawke asked. 

Wordlessly, he held out the book to her. She took it from him. Her eyebrows rose as she stared down in shock.

“That isn’t possible,” she said.

Back when they were crossing the Waking Sea, Cullen was in the earliest stages of withdrawal. He needed a distraction. Desperate, and on the cusp of trying to confront his past, he’d asked Varric for a copy of _Tale of the Champion._

Varric had not only obliged him. He’d added an inscription: 

_Curly - Try not to take anything in here too personally. We all did shit we’re not proud of. Believe me: you’re a good guy. - Varric Tethras_

He must have closed the book too quickly afterward, because the inscription had left a smudge on the title page. 

The same smudge as the one on Hawke’s note. 

Hawke glanced back and forth between the two pages. “They’re identical. What? How the fuck did I _get_ this?”

“I think I may have an idea,” Cullen said. She looked up at him. He began to pace. “There’s something you should know. About the rebel mages. And a Tevinter group called the Venatori.” He paused, rubbing his forehead. Shockingly, his headache was all but gone. He gestured toward a chair. “Perhaps you should take a seat. We may be here a while.”

* * *

When he finished, Hawke looked lost. “I don’t understand. What does it all mean?”

He let himself fall into his chair. “There must have been another false future. One no one remembers, this time.” The implications of _that_ were horrifying. He met Hawke’s gaze. “We need to go the Inquisitor.”

“Trevelyan?” Hawke said, incredulous. “No. Out of the question. I trust her as far as I can throw Mount Sundermount.”

“But she's the Venatori target. She deserves to know if they’ve made further efforts against us.”

Hawke levelled him with a glare. “Cullen, if Other-Me wanted me to find the Inquisitor, she would have written _that._ She wrote _your_ name. There has to be a reason. Besides, we don’t even know if the Venatori did it, yet. Anyone with access to that magister’s research could have replicated the spell.”

Cullen conceded the point. “Fine. Then who _do_ we trust?”

Hawke considered. “Well, Varric, for one.”

“No.”

“What?” she cried, outraged. “You can’t be serious.”

“If you have the right to dismiss Trevelyan as an option, I have the right to dismiss Varric.”

“Maker’s breath! Really? Because I don’t like your friend, you don’t like mine? Of all the petty, immature, _childish_ things to do--”

Cullen cut her off. “No. I’m honestly not certain we can trust him.”

Hawke’s lips thinned. “Wow. You don’t think we can trust _Varric Tethras._ And to think, he was defending you in the tavern just the other night!”

“Do not mistake my meaning. Varric is a good friend. If I could be sure the man he is today is the man he will remain….” Cullen closed his eyes and sighed. “I read _Tale._ I know he kept the red lyrium shard after his brother died. And red lyrium, well.” He opened his eyes. “You of all people know how it can change a person, Hawke. Surely we’ve seen enough proof of that.” He shrugged. “As you pointed out, the name you wrote, for whatever reason… was mine. Surely if this future version of you trusted Varric, she would have written Varric’s name.”

The anger on Hawke’s face dissipated into pain. “Fuck,” she said. 

Cullen tasted guilt in the back of his throat. “I know you two are close. I apologize for implying--”

“No,” Hawke cut him off, looking away. “No, you’re right. Okay. Varric’s out.” She let out a breath. “What other choices do we have?”

There was a pause. “Carver?” Cullen suggested. 

“No,” Hawke said. “Until we know what we’re dealing with, I’m not getting my brother involved." Cullen didn’t fight her on that one; the Hawkes had a complicated relationship, but he did not doubt their desire to keep one another safe. Hawke bit her lip. “Aveline?”

Cullen thought of the guard captain, the picture of practicality. “I’m not sure she’d believe us,” he admitted. “And she would not come this far just to see a letter. What of your other friends in Kirkwall?”

“What other friends?” Hawke said bitterly. She began ticking off her fingers. “Fenris is dead, Anders is missing, Sebastian’s waging a war against me, Merrill….” Her eyes snapped up to his. “Has her own issues to deal with.”

“She’s a blood mage,” Cullen said shortly. Hawke’s eyes widened in surprise. “I told you. I read _Tale.”_

Hawke's stunned gaze drifted. “I didn’t realize that was in there.”

This time, it was Cullen’s turn to be surprised. “You mean you haven’t read it,” he realized. 

“Of course I haven’t,” she said. “Why the fuck would I? To be honest, I’m a little surprised that you _have.”_

“I needed to,” he said. “It helped me process some things. Confront with my past. Focus on who I wanted to be in the future.”

They both fell silent. She studied her hands and cleared her throat. “What about your people here?”

Cullen took a deep breath, thinking. “Well, if we don’t want Trevelyan to know, we can’t tell Vivienne. Or Cassandra. Or Josephine.”

“What about the redhead?” Hawke asked. “I doubt she’ll be pleased to see me, but I know she traveled with the Hero of Ferelden. Surely she’s used to weird shit and dark magic.”

Cullen shook his head. “I would agree, under normal circumstances,” he said. “But Leliana... she's experiencing a crisis of faith. She was very close with the Divine, you see.”

“Right,” Hawke said. “I remember.”

“She has become impulsive. Unpredictable.” He thought further. “We cannot tell the Iron Bull, obviously.”

“Obviously,” Hawke agreed. 

“Sera is out of the question. Cole already knows, but…. Well, I’m never quite sure how much he understands of anything. I don’t have a good read on Blackwall. He’s a capable soldier, but when pressed about his past, before he joined the Wardens--” 

“You have a Grey Warden here?” Hawke interrupted.

“Yes. But he has not heard anything from his Order.”

Hawke narrowed her eyes. “And he’s… fine?”

“What do you mean, fine?”

“He’s acting normally? Not under duress?”

Cullen studied her, confused. “As far as I can tell.”

Hawke chewed on her lip. “We’ll need to keep an eye on that one,” she said softly, as if to herself. She looked back at Cullen. “Sorry, go on.”

“Right.” He paused. “Ah. Dorian is an option.”

“Dorian. As in the Vint who worked with the big bad Magister from your little Redcliffe story?”

“Yes.”

“Yeah, no. Absolutely not.”

“He’s a friend, Hawke,” Cullen insisted. “By the time Alexius actually _used_ the amulet, Dorian was not involved--”

Hawke held up a hand to stop him. “Don’t care. It’s really cute that you’ve been charmed by a mage, but anyone with ties to the Venatori could be a spy. Who else you got?”

Cullen flushed, nearly defended himself, then shook his head. “Well, there’s Solas.”

“Who’s that?”

“An elven hedge mage. Keeps to himself, mostly - though he talks to Cassandra from time to time. He showed up right after the Conclave exploded and healed the mark on Trevelyan’s hand. Without him, she'd be dead. He studies the Fade, and the Veil, as I understand. He was the one who figured out how to seal the Breach. And he led us to Skyhold.” He winced. Before Hawke could reply, he added, “Right, yes. Now that I’m saying it all together, I can see how that might look suspicious.”

“Yeah,” Hawke said. “Another one to keep an eye on.” She twisted her lips into a frown. “Oh, maybe.... Do you know the Grey Warden Alistair?”

Cullen swallowed. “I, ah--. No. That is…. We met once. But, given the circumstances, I am not sure he would be inclined to think well of me.”

Hawke sighed. “Well, I guess it’s just us for now, then.”

“So it would seem.”

Hawke shook her head. “Ugh,” she said, sliding down in her chair. She covered her face with her hands. “We’re going to have to investigate, aren’t we? And stop some big, evil group from doing big, evil things. I hate all this hero crap.”

“Really?” he asked. He chuckled, thinking back to Kirkwall. “You seem to have quite a knack for it.”

Hawke's laugh was humorless. “Yeah. A _knack_ for it. That’s why parts of Kirkwall are still on fire.” Cullen stared at her, his amusement fading. She picked up the note from his desk and looked at it bitterly. “Honestly, maybe whatever went wrong with this Hawke happened _because_ she got involved. That’s the way it seemed to go with everything else.”

“Is that really what you think?”

Hawke gave him a small smile. “I’m pretty sure it’s what everyone thinks,” she said. 

“Hawke. That isn't true. You saved Kirkwall twice.”

“Yeah,” Hawke said with a snort. She stood and stretched. “Look, I’m exhausted. We can talk more tomorrow. There's got to be someone capable who can handle this.”

Cullen's throat bobbed as he watched her leave. “Wait,” he said as she reached the door. “Trevelyan… she didn’t get a chance to share with us what you told her.”

Hawke rolled her eyes. “Surprise, surprise.”

“Perhaps tomorrow you could come to a council meeting. I think it would be valuable for us to discuss whatever information you have about Corypheus. Especially in light of….” He waved a hand at his copy of _Tale._ “This.” He let a small huff of laughter escape. “I also think the Seeker would kill me if I did not at least _attempt_ to introduce you. She quite idolizes you.”

Hawke’s expression shifted into something unreadable. She didn’t reply for a moment. Then she nodded. “Fine.” She opened the door. “But make it a lunch meeting. And if the Inquisition has any shrimp in its kitchens, make sure it’s there. I don’t care if it’s the canned stuff or not. I haven't had shrimp in nearly three years and I am _dying._ _”_

“As you wish,” Cullen said.

Hawke gave him a tiny mock-salute. “Commander,” she said wryly. 

“Hawke,” he returned, having learned his lesson. 

As she left, Cullen turned back to the report on Carroll. It still hurt to see his old friend's name, but there was no panic now. He was not Carroll. He was Cullen Rutherford. He’d faced his demons, both literal and metaphorical, and survived. 

Making a mental note to send word to the Inquisitor, he filed the report away.

He glanced at his copy of _Tale._ It had been nearly a year since he’d read it, and he’d been half-delirious then. Perhaps it was time for a reread. 

He took the book and opened to page one. 

* * *

Hawke waited outside the war room, dressed once more in her old armor. Last time, she’d worn it for Varric’s sake. This time, she wore it for Cassandra Pentaghast. 

Or maybe she wore it for herself. 

_She quite idolizes you,_ Cullen had said last night, unaware of the effect those words would have on her. 

She knew from Varric that Cassandra had been… well, _seeking_ her, for lack of a better term. She knew that they wanted her to be Inquisitor at one point. But she had not realized that it had been for anything besides symbolic purposes. She was the most famous mage in Thedas. Having Hawke as the Inquisitor would have been the equivalent of waving a brightly colored sign that read: _Mages! Look! You can trust us, even though we’re an arm of the Chantry!_

She tapped her foot. Varric had turned her into some sort of folk hero, sure, but Cassandra Pentaghast's rank was a little higher than _fo_ _lk._ If the Right Hand of the late Divine had forgiven her past actions - if she, in fact, had never held them against her, and even thought _well_ of her - then maybe Hawke hadn’t fucked up as badly as she thought.

Her mind went to her mother. 

“Yeah, no, I fucked up pretty badly,” she muttered to herself, kicking the floor. 

But maybe there were times she’d helped, too. _You saved Kirkwall twice,_ Cullen had told her, so earnestly that she almost believed him. And, Maker, if _he_ could work past his issues and become commander of the Inquisition forces…. She’d seen his hands shaking. She’d watched his expression stay firmly neutral when he called Merrill a blood mage. She'd seen the softening of his manners, the considerate turn of his behavior toward her. 

Maybe Varric was right about him. Surely, if Cullen could try to become part of something better--

Hawke gasped, her head snapping up to stare at the wall across the way. “Second chances,” she said out loud. “That’s it. _That’s_ why I told myself to find him.”

At that moment, the door to the war room opened. A tall, bald elf exited, saw her, and stilled. The door closed behind him.

“Champion,” he said. Then, placing his hands behind his back, he added, “I presume.”

For the first time in a long while, a smile rose to her lips at the title. “Yes. Of Kirkwall, at least. I'm afraid I'm a fish out of water, here. And you are?”

He studied her face before he answered. “My name is Solas.”

“Ah! The hedge mage,” she said. He raised one eyebrow, and she hastily apologized. “Sorry. That sounded condescending. I’m a bit of a hedge mage myself these days. Well. Sort of. Not many hedges in the desert.” She tried to move on as quickly as possible. “So! You study the Fade, right?”

Surprise flickered in his eyes. “Yes. Varric mentioned me to you?”

“No. Cullen told me a bit about the Inquisition mages,” she said. Solas blinked. She decided it was past time to leave this conversation, and made toward the door. “Well, I’m meeting with the council right now. But, hey! Maybe I’ll see you around.”

“I look forward to it,” Solas said, dipping his head in a brief bow. 

Inside, Cullen was waiting with three women. He stepped forward. “Hawke,” he said. “May I present the Inquisition council?” He gestured toward the woman next to him. “Josephine Montilyet.”

“A pleasure,” the woman replied brightly. “Cullen was good enough to convey your request.” She gestured toward the table. “We have three different types of shrimp for lunch: a Ferelden salad with tarragon and apple, the traditional Orlesian style, served in a cream sauce, and - my personal favorite - a spiced Rivaini pie, stuffed with potatoes and peas.”

A slow grin spread over Hawke's face. “Oh, I can already tell we’re going to be friends.” Josephine laughed. 

Cullen gestured to the redhead. “This is Leliana.”

“We’ve met,” Leliana said with the hint of a smile. To Hawke’s surprise, she did not look the least bit angry. Another assumption turned on its head. Leliana bowed her head, her smile fading. “Allow me to tell you how sorry the Divine was that the situation in Kirkwall ended the way it did. She regretted her inaction until the day she died. Were she still with us, I am certain she would convey to you her appreciation for all you did to help.”

“Well said,” the last woman agreed, as a stunned Hawke stood, speechless. 

“And, of course, this is Cassandra Pentaghast,” Cullen said gesturing toward her. 

“A great pleasure, Champion,” Cassandra said sincerely. 

Cullen winced. “You needn’t call her--”

“It’s fine, Cullen,” Hawke stopped him. “The pleasure’s all mine, Cassandra. I’ve heard a lot about you. And given the source, I believe… oh, about half of it.”

Cassandra looked startled. “That’s… very generous of you,” she said.

“Toward you or toward Varric?” Hawke asked dryly.

“In any event,” Cullen interrupted, giving Hawke a look, “I invited Hawke here today to share her findings about Corypheus.”

Hawke stepped up to the table and down at the map. She found Crestwood with a glance. “It’s not much. But I’ll tell you what I know.”

* * *

When the meeting was over, Hawke gave Cullen a significant look and held up one finger. He nodded his understanding and waited. Cassandra hung back, clearly hoping to ask a few questions. When Hawke suggested that instead they grab dinner, the Seeker was more than happy to agree. 

The door closed as she left. Hawke turned to Cullen. 

“I must say, your mood has much improved from last night,” Cullen observed.

“That’s because I figured it out,” Hawke said. She went back to the war table, standing across from him. “The past four years, I’ve been avoiding everything. Even after it became clear that I would probably be safe if I came back, I stayed away. Why? Because I felt weighed down by my own failures.” She shivered, looking at the map. Her gaze drifted toward Kirkwall. “I still do, a bit. It’s like, you hit a certain point, and suddenly, all you can think is, _‘why bother?’”_

“That, I certainly understand,” Cullen said darkly, his hand clenching his pommel. 

“But you worked past it!” Hawke exclaimed, grinning. “That’s the point! What was it you told me last night?” She snapped her fingers. “That's right! You said _Tale_ helped you confront your past, and focus on who you wanted to be in the future.” She leaned forward. “And that’s what you need to teach me!”

“Hawke,” Cullen said, uncertain. “What I’m dealing with, and what you’re dealing with are… very different things. You faced incredible obstacles--”

“--many of which I failed to overcome,” Hawke finished. “And now I need to. Even if it means throwing everything I know about myself out the window. What, that doesn’t sound familiar?”

Cullen’s brow furrowed. He looked at the war map, thinking. “What does that mean, though? How do I teach you to do that? I had to find the way myself.”

“I don’t know,” Hawke said. She pulled out the note and held it up. “But you must have figured it out last time, buddy, because here we are.”

Cullen looked at the note. He nodded slowly. “Fine. I’ll help. But you have to help me figure out who reset everything to this timeline, and….” He hesitated. “And if we need to reset it back, you need to help me do that, too. Even if it means neither of us survive.”

“Right there with you,” Hawke agreed. She put the note away and clapped her hands. “Okay! So where do we begin? Some training? Some prayer? I've never been particularly religious, but I can try! Oh! Maybe I let Cassandra butter me up a little to raise my confidence?”

Cullen was giving her an odd look. “I think,” he said slowly, “given the other Hawke’s choice of stationery, that we begin with _Tale of the Champion.”_

Hawke stared at him. She felt her own face fall. Groaning, she turned away. _"M_ _otherfucker.”_ Cullen began to speak but she just waved him off. “No, no. You’re right. That's clearly what she wanted.” She sighed. “Okay. Let’s get started, I guess.”

* * *

“That stuff about Flemeth is true, actually,” Hawke was saying as Cullen tried not to stare at the boots she’d just propped up on his desk. “Dragon and all. I know it sounds ridiculous, but Aveline can back me up, if you really need someone else to--”

“Hawke,” Cullen interrupted.

“What?” she asked. He flicked his eyes to her feet, and then back to her face, raising his eyebrows slightly. Realization dawned on her face and she scowled. “Oh, for Maker’s sake. Really? You don’t even have any papers there.”

“That isn’t the point,” he replied. 

“Fine.” Hawke let her feet fall to the ground, her boots thudding on the stone floor. She let out a disappointed noise. “Apparently, you can take the boy out of the Order,” she said dryly, “but you can’t take the Order out of the boy.” Cullen tensed, trying not to take her words too seriously. He failed. Some of it must have shown on his face, because Hawke suddenly looked horrified with herself. “Maker’s breath. Sorry. I wasn't.... I just meant to tease you. Old habits, and all that.”

Her sincerity was clear. Cullen relaxed slightly. “Ah. You mean that you can't teach an old dog new tricks?” he tried, attempting a joke. 

She looked shocked, then gave him a delighted smile. “Commander! Are you calling me old?”

“I’m calling you Fereldan,” Cullen said, his own grin forming in response. 

“Takes one to know--,” she began, but then the door swung open, and Jim walked in. Cullen regretted not locking it. Now that he and Hawke had a secret, he needed to be more careful. 

“Commander,” Jim said. “Missive for you. From the Inquisitor.”

“The Inquisitor?” Cullen asked, surprised. “Isn’t she _en route_ to the Fallow Mire?”

“She sent a raven from the road.”

Cullen stood so fast the papers on his desk fluttered. Those ravens were reserved for emergencies. He took the note, ripped the seal and began to read. As he did, his concern melted away. Anger replaced it. 

Hawke looked worried. “What is it?”

Cullen glanced at Jim. “Dismissed,” he said. Jim hesitated, giving the note a curious glance, then left, closing the door behind him. Cullen turned to Hawke, clenching his jaw. “The Inquisitor says you’re to leave for Crestwood immediately.”

Hawke straightened in her chair. “I'm sorry, what?”

“She says that since the council has been informed of your mission, perhaps you should go and make sure your Warden is still in Crestwood.”

Hawke stared at him. “Someone told her,” she realized. “Someone told her I met with you.” He nodded. She stood angrily. “See? I _told_ you I don’t trust her.”

“Yes, well,” Cullen said, throwing the note on his desk. He rubbed his head, trying to ignore the pulsing in his temples. “Apparently, you were right not to.”

“Fuck,” Hawke said. She drew in a quick breath, then threw him an ironic smile that did not reach her eyes. “Well, commander. I suppose disobeying my first direct order would be in poor taste. Please, tell Cassandra I was sorry to miss dinner.”

“Hawke--,” Cullen began. 

She shook her head. “Don’t worry. I’ll be back before you know it.”

“No,” he said. He picked _Tale of the Champion_ off his desk and held it out to her. “Take this.” A series of emotions passed over Hawke’s face as she looked at the book. After a moment, she stepped around the desk to take it from him. Her fingers brushed his as she did. “And stay safe,” Cullen added softly. 

She stared at the cover, then met his gaze, a more gentle look in her eye than he'd seen before. They were less than a foot away from each other. For the briefest second, he imagined she might embrace him. The thought made him swallow down something rising in his chest. Instead, she took a step back and nodded. “You, too, Cullen.”

Then she walked out the door, into the afternoon sun. Cullen watched her walk away, until the door closed and blocked his vision. He sat back down. His eyes flicked over the notes in front of him - the beginnings of a lesson in Hawke’s past. He would need to file them away for her return. 

This was a setback, to be sure. He rubbed his chin, thinking. _Who in Andraste’s name told Trevelyan?_ he wondered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know Hawke runs hot and cold. She's kind of like a light switch. She has a love-hate relationship with herself. (And yes, I did change her name to Eleanor.)
> 
> Solas is trying to play it very cool this time. He still has to befriend Leliana and Cassandra, but I think he would be _farrrr_ more taciturn with everyone else. Also, he fucked up by ensuring Hawke was alone, because that just made her more likely to seek out Cullen. 
> 
> Please let me know if you catch any mistakes, continuity or grammar-wise. I have no beta for this and am trying not to be my usual anal self about editing. 
> 
> Next up: Trevelyan POV!


	5. Chapter 5

**_Excerpt from Solas’s Journal_ **

_Skyhold, 9:41 Dragon._

_Attempt 2_

_Separating the Champion from Varric was a mistake. Instead of encouraging passivity, it led her straight to the commander. I must admit, I am surprised by this turn of events. I believed their disdain for each other would keep them at an arm’s length for several months, at least. It did last time. I misjudged how Hawke would react to outright isolation._

_Trevelyan remains predictable, however. The next missive she received included a few lines about Hawke being popular amongst the council. That very afternoon, the Champion was sent into the field._

_I hope that this will be the last interference required of me. My focus_ _should_ _be on finding a way to protect the orb - not manipulating the errant social lives of four quicklings. I am beginning to feel like some frivolous meddler back in Arlathan, with nothing better to do but pull noble strings for my own amusement._

_Frankly, it is exhausting._

_\--Solas_

* * *

For the past decade, Hawke had dreamed of returning to Ferelden. She missed the green grass. She missed the bountiful trees. She missed the friendly faces, the sprawling hills, the changing seasons. She missed the snow, and the rain, and the taste of fresh plums in the summer. 

She missed home.

Which is probably why it was such a blow to learn that, in reality, Ferelden _sucked._

To be fair, maybe just Crestwood sucked. It wasn't Lothering, that was for sure. Between the red lyrium, the walking dead, and a brief appearance of a high dragon, Hawke was pretty sure the whole place was trying to kill her. 

And then there was the weather. 

“How the fuck did I ever miss rain?” Hawke asked herself as she slogged through what must have once been a dirt road, but would now be better described as a river of ankle-deep mud. “Rain is _terrible.”_

She was soaked. Her boots had done an admirable job of keeping her feet dry for about eight minutes. Strands of hair clung to her face and neck. Shivering, she pushed them back, trying to blink away the endless stream of water that cascaded down her face. The rain was freezing, but between the exertion of climbing those damned _sprawling hills_ and the weight of her mantle, she was sweating like an apostate at a templar party. 

She found a crossroads. One path led uphill, while the other led down. She peered into the valley below, trying to make out any openings in the rock and stone. As it turned out, caves were abundant in Crestwood. Hawke had no idea what differentiated a smuggler’s cave from a regular one. Was it the cave’s proximity to a port? A pile of contraband sitting in the corner? The presence of an actual smuggler, who hopefully didn’t mind sharing? 

After a moment’s hesitation, she went with her gut and took the uphill path. How she was ever going to find Alistair, she had no idea. She felt like she was looking for a needle in a haystack. 

A very damp, very cold haystack. 

Not that she blamed him for staying well hidden. She’d already run into a group of Grey Wardens who mentioned they were searching for a defector. They did not seem suspicious when she said she was an Inquisition agent hoping to help with Crestwood’s demon problem. 

Lightning lit up the sky. In the brief flash, she caught a glimpse of something ahead - something painted red, by the looks of it. It didn’t look like red lyrium. 

Holding her arm up to block the downpour, she plodded up the steep incline, ignoring the way her toes squished together in her socks. _“Dear Varric,”_ she narrated loudly, barely hearing her own voice over the rain and wind. _“How are you? I’m good. Say, if I happen to drown in Crestwood, will you make sure Carver gets notified? I'm not sure how much he'll mourn me, but he’ll be tickled pink to learn that, in the end, it was bad weather that did me in. Thanks so much. Your friend, Hawke.”_ She grit her teeth. _“PS If I_ don’t _drown, I’m strangling you for dragging me into this mess the moment I’m back at Skyhold.”_

She reached the place she’d seen the flash of red. Summoning a wisp of light, she examined the stone wall in front of her. There was a skull painted on it, wearing a red bandana. To her right, she saw a cave.

“Smugglers,” she realized. She let out a breath of relief. “Thank the _Maker.”_

Inside, it was blessedly still. She wrung out her hair as she walked toward what appeared to be a light in the back. Pushing open a rickety wooden door, she peered around. 

The cave was spacious and warm. A fire flickered in a stone pit in the middle of the room. Above the flames hung a pot of water that was not quite boiling. There was a table with a few books on it, two chairs, and a bedroll laying flat on the floor.

Otherwise, it was empty. 

“Hello?” she asked. 

Someone grabbed her from behind, forcing her arms against her side. 

Hawke cursed. Walking in without her staff drawn was a rookie mistake. She pushed a burst of arcane energy at her attacker. They stumbled, but held their own. She tasted a change in the air. Panic filled her as she realized that this was no ordinary attacker. This was a _templar,_ and they were about to Silence her. 

She squeezed her eyes shut, bracing herself. The first wave hit. It surged through her veins like a shot of whiskey on an empty stomach. 

To her surprise, it did not weaken her connection to the Fade. 

She held her breath. Sometimes, the full effects of a Silence were delayed. It depended on how recently the templar in question had taken lyrium. 

Seconds ticked by.

Nothing happened. 

"...is that it?" she asked out loud.

"I'm a little out of practice," the voice behind her said defensively.

Hawke’s eyes shot open. "Alistair?" she asked. 

The grip on her loosened. "Hawke?"

Hawke groaned. Annoyed, she grabbed him by the hand and gave him a shock - sharp enough to startle him, but not strong enough to do any real damage. He yelped. One arm let her go. She broke the rest of the way free and turned around to glare at him. 

Alistair gave her a wounded look. _"Ouch,"_ he said. "What was that for?" 

"What was that _for?”_ Hawke said, outraged. “You Silenced me!"

"That was _barely_ a Silence. I Quieted you. I Politely Hushed you. You know I haven’t been able to do a real Silence in years."

“Then why did you even try it, dumbass?”

“I dunno! It was a reflex! You… you used magic. So I templar'd!"

“I was defending myself! You grabbed me from behind!”

“Ah," he said, suddenly looking sheepish. He rubbed his neck. "Yes. Right. Sorry about that. I sort of thought you were a Warden."

“You sort of thought…?” She blinked at him. “That’s impossible. Can’t you all… _sense_ each other or something?”

“Usually, yes. But….” He sighed. “Things have been a bit screwy since Corypheus showed up.”

Hawke felt the sinking sensation she always got when Corypheus was mentioned by name. “Screwy how?”

Alistair paused. He pinched his nose. “I…. I’ll explain later.” Hawke felt her anger fade as she realized how exhausted he looked. His skin was pale, and he appeared to have lost weight. He glanced up, his face relaxing into a tired grin. “Maker’s breath. I know we're arguing, but… I can’t tell you how glad I am to _talk_ to someone. Other than myself, I mean. I've been hiding here since I sent you my last note. The solitude was really starting to get to me.”

Hawke glanced around the cave. Suddenly it didn’t look quite so spacious. “I bet.”

“I take it this means you found help.” She nodded. “Who?”

“The Inquisition. The Inquisitor’s coming to meet you herself.”

Alistair looked surprised. “Wow. They finally got themselves an Inquisitor, did they? When did that happen?”

“Two months ago. You hadn’t heard?”

“No,” he said. He gestured at the ceiling. “In my defense, I _have_ been living under a rock. Haven’t even been to town in a week or two, what with all the Wardens hanging about.” His eyes became hopeful. “Speaking of which, I don’t suppose you brought any food with you? I’ve had to start rationing.”

Hawke suspected as much. “Some dried fruit and jerky,” she said, swinging her pack off her shoulder. Alistair came closer. He looked like he was salivating. She pulled out the damp package and frowned. “Though I’m not exactly sure how dry the fruit will be at this point.” She pointed over her shoulder with her thumb. “And I killed a druffalo down by the lake. We could go grab it.”

“You killed a druffalo?” Alistair asked. 

“Yes.”

“A druffalo. The gentlest of all the Maker’s creatures.”

She gave him a look. “That’s fennecs.”

“That’s not what the sisters say in Redcliffe.” 

"In Lothering, it was fennecs," Hawke said. “Nice to know the Chantry can’t even keep a coherent message on local wildlife. Either way, _this_ druffalo was _not_ gentle.”

He chuckled. “Well. Thank the Maker someone’s out there protecting the poor citizens of Crestwood from the vile and dangerous druffalo population.”

“Hey. It attacked me,” Hawke insisted. Alistair didn’t look convinced. She added, reluctantly, “... after I hit it by accident. It’s not my fault it was standing next to a group of demons.” Alistair just smirked. Hawke went back to glaring at him. “Look, buddy. I’m offering you two hundred pounds of fresh meat, versus a handful of damp raisins. Maybe don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”

He let out a mock gasp. “Why? Are you going to kill the gift horse too?”

_"Alistair--"_

"Is any creature, great or small, safe from your maniacal reign of terror?" 

Hawke rolled her eyes. “Ugh. I forgot how insufferable you are. Come on, the Wardens are all up by the village. Let’s go get the carcass while it's dark.”

* * *

On the way down to the lake, they found an abandoned farm. Eleanor explored what was left of the vegetable garden while Alistair stood guard, shivering in the rain. She was pleased to find spring onions, carrots, tubers, herbs, and elfroot. 

They dragged the druffalo carcass back to the cave together, where they both cleaned up and changed out of their wet armor. Hawke wore a comically large shirt that Alistair lent her. She kept on the leggings that she'd worn under her armor. They were damp, but sitting near the fire helped. He poured hot tea into a wooden mug and handed it to her. She took it gratefully. 

“So,” he said. “How long until this Inquisitor of yours gets here?”

Hawke resisted the urge to clarify that Trevelyan was not _her_ Inquisitor. Nor did she mention that, apparently, Trevelyan saw her as some sort of threat, or nuisance, or rival, and had sent her out to Crestwood as punishment. Until she knew who she could trust, she had to be careful about what she said around people. 

"I’m not sure," she said. "I left in a bit of a rush." 

Alistair nodded, kneeling next to the dead druffalo. He pulled out a knife and began cutting into its thick skin. "I only ask because I was… well. Hoping to leave Crestwood soon."

Hawke blew on her tea, cradling the cup in her hands. It smelled like dried oranges. She took a sip. “Too many Wardens around for your taste?”

“There’s that,” Alistair agreed. He slid his hand underneath the hide, separating it from the meat. “I also have a lead. There’s an old ritual tower in the Western Approach. Whatever the Wardens are up to, I think it’s happening there.”

 _Great,_ Hawke thought to herself. Back to the desert. “Well, it’ll be a couple of weeks, at least,” she said out loud. “Trevelyan’s resolving a hostage situation in the Fallow Mire.”

He glanced over his shoulder. “Trevelyan?”

“The Inquisitor,” Hawke said. “Tahani Trevelyan. She’s the daughter of some Bann from the Free Marches.”

Alistair let his gaze drift, a puzzled look in his eyes. “Why does that name sound so familiar?”

“She _was_ the Herald of Andraste.”

“No. It’s not that. Something else.”

Hawke shrugged. "Have you ever been to Ostwick?”

“No. _Well._ I’ve been beneath Ostwick. But I wasn’t exactly meeting Banns in the Deep Roads.” He shook the thought away and continued his work. “Doesn’t matter. Maybe she has a Warden cousin or something.” 

Alistair fell silent, focusing on his work. Hawke pulled _Tale of the Champion_ out of her pack. She stared at it for a moment, debating. Her last conversation with Cullen came to mind. 

_“Why am I reading Tale, again?” she’d asked as he’d walked her to the stables._

_“To forgive yourself.” She’d snorted. He’d stopped walking, turning to look at her. “Hawke. You can’t keep beating yourself up about the past. You wanted to help people. That much was clear. It’s clear in the book as well. I suspect on some level, you still want to help.”_

_“Yeah. That’s why I spent four years hiding in the desert.”_

_“You would still be there otherwise. But you’re scared.”_

_“Don’t be ridiculous,” she’d told him. She’d crossed her arms and looked away.“Okay. Yes. There was a time I wanted to help. But that time is over. I learned my lesson. If anything, I’m jaded.”_

_He’d shaken his head. “No. You’re scared,” he’d insisted. “I know because I was the same way.” He’d stepped back, running a hand through his hair. “I…_ am _the same way.” A heavy sigh. “Look. Whenever I have doubts, I try to remember why I--. Why I made certain choices. Why I joined the Order in the first place. A... sense of duty. One I believe you share, on some level.” She’d met his gaze. “The desire to help is not wrong, Hawke.”_

_“But it can be corrupted.”_

_“That doesn’t mean you don’t try. You know what that corruption looks like now.”_

_She’d grown serious. “I do. And it looks an awful lot like duty.”_

_“Does it?” he’d asked, but his tone suggested the question was rhetorical. “For too long, I thought duty was obedience. It’s not. It’s obligation.” His eyes had seemed very sincere, then. “The people we wanted to help are still out there, Hawke. They still need us. We_ owe _it to them to try.”_

Back in the cave, Hawke frowned. She knew he was right. But she also suspected she knew what happened in the first chapter. 

And she wasn’t quite ready to forgive herself for Bethany. 

Alistair interrupted her thoughts. “You don't happen to know how to cure meat, do you? There's no chance we'll finish this all before it spoils." Hawke didn't even look up, instead lifting one hand lazily. She felt the air change as a layer of ice materialized over the meat. Alistair huffed. "Ah. Right. That'll work, then."

Hawke put the book away. She took out her flask instead. 

* * *

Before Hawke left Skyhold, Leliana had given her a raven. She was instructed to send word when she found her Warden contact. The bird was trained to go between the fortress's rookery and wherever Hawke released it, carrying letters. 

“Do you give these to all your agents?” Hawke had asked dryly. She knew these types of birds were rare and expensive. 

“No,” Leliana had told her with an innocent smile. “But then, not all our agents are quite so notable.”

Hawke saw the bird for what it really was: a way to communicate without involving Tahani Trevelyan. Cullen told her that he was not the only council member questioning the Inquisitor’s strange behavior toward Hawke. Trevelyan, he explained, was known to enjoy attention, and had always been a bit prone to egotism, but the council had never seen her act petty. 

They were concerned. 

As promised, Hawke released the raven after dinner. It returned the next morning with a note confirming it had reached Skyhold. Hawke wrote back that they were settled for now, and to send word when Trevelyan was on her way. 

Then they waited. 

Hawke hated the waiting. The rain never ceased. By the end of the first week, Alistair’s constant jokes began to grate on her nerves. And once she got around to it, reading the first part of _Tale of the Champion_ was just as depressing as she’d anticipated. 

In short, Hawke was bored, annoyed, and increasingly morose. 

After two weeks, the bird came back. Alistair found it _caw_ ing at the entrance of the cave. The letter strapped to its leg was addressed to Hawke. She tore it open and read it, eager to see the light at the end of the tunnel. 

A deep sense of despair settled over her. 

Alistair noticed. “What is it?” he asked, concerned. 

“It appears that the Inquisitor has been waylaid in the Hinterlands,” she said bitterly. “She’s searching for a lost druffalo.”

“I’m sorry, she’s _what?”_

“Searching for a lost druffalo.” Hawke reread the note before crumpling it up into a ball. “And doing a geological study for the University of Orlais. It may take several weeks.”

Alistair stared at her. "You _did_ express that the situation is very dire, didn’t you?”

She rubbed her forehead. “I was under the impression that ‘ _the darkspawn magister who tried to kill you is probably controlling an entire army of Grey Wardens’_ spoke for itself.”

Alistair sat down next to the fire. “Apparently not.”

Hawke felt ill. Maybe Varric was right. Maybe Trevelyan _was_ jealous of her. It seemed unlikely, but she could not think of a more reasonable explanation for the Inquisitor’s behavior. She sat across from Alistair and wrapped her arms around her knees. Guilt began brewing in the pit of her stomach. 

She thought of her note again. _Find Curly._

Fat lot of good _that_ had done her. 

“Well,” Alistair said, forcing a cheerful tone. “Looks like we’re stuck together a little longer.” He leaned back on his elbows and offered Hawke a weak smile. “Fancy another round of Person, Place, Or Thing?”

* * *

The third week stretched into the fourth. Hawke began to linger in her bedroll each morning. The rain made her tired, and it wasn’t like she had any particular place to be. At first it was just for an hour or two, but soon enough, she could not drag herself away from the warm cocoon of her blanket before midday. There was a weariness that washed over her whenever she moved - whenever she _breathed_ , really. 

Despite her listlessness, sleep did not come easily. The Veil was too thin here. She huddled herself into a ball at night, facing away from the fire and wishing for darkness. 

Her thoughts ebbed and flowed, like water in a river. Sometimes, they trickled through her without a sound. Other times, they rushed by, overwhelming her mind. When it became too much, she retreated to a dark corner of the cave that afforded her some privacy. There, she burned dead leaves, or carved names into the wall, or used Veilfire to make shadow puppets, like how she and Bethany had done as children. 

Despite his professed lack of proficiency, Alistair took over cooking duties. Whether he was as bad as he claimed, she could not say. Her stomach could not handle much food. The little she ate, she barely tasted. 

Alistair gave her worried glances, but he held his tongue. He kept a running commentary throughout the day, as if everything were fine. The less she responded, the more chatty he seemed to become. She did her best to ignore him. 

After eight days, he broke. 

“Aren’t you going to head to the village?” he asked in a pleading tone. “You haven’t been in over a week. We’re out of bread.” He paused. “And rum,” he added. 

Early on, they’d agreed Hawke would go to Crestwood proper every so often, to gather supplies and keep an ear to the ground. The Wardens were still lurking nearby, but so were the demons, meaning she had a solid excuse for why she, a supposed agent of the Inquisition, was still out there. The villagers were grateful. The mayor himself had thanked her after she cleared out a particularly vicious group of shades.

Hawke sighed. She drew herself from her bedroll without speaking. As she forced her heavy arms to lift her armor, Alistair waved his hands in the air, stopping her. 

“Never mind. I can’t send you out there like this. Maker’s _breath.”_ His worried look became sympathetic. “Hawke, what’s _wrong?”_

“Besides the fact that you refuse to play Fuck Kill Or Marry?” she asked dryly.

“Hawke,” Alistair said. 

Hawke took a moment to check her emotions. Having to acknowledge that something _was_ wrong, she felt the sting of tears at her eyes. “I’m prone to these,” she began, pausing to swallow, “... fits of malaise, I suppose.” Hawke’s cheek was suddenly wet. She used her wrist to wipe it. “My mother had them, too, and--” 

That was all she could manage before she was really crying. _Weeping_ , really. She covered her face with her hands. It seemed Crestwood had done the one thing the desert never had: it had cracked her open. 

Alistair hesitated. She could hear him approach her, warily, as one might a mabari who’d gone rabid. An awkward hand landed on her shoulder.

“Um,” he said. He sighed. “Look. Obviously, you don’t want to talk to _me.”_ Hawke shook her head, looking up at him, but Alistair spoke over her attempt at a denial. “No, it’s fine. I’m not offended. We don’t really know each other. And I’ve never been the best at this sort of thing, anyway. But I do think you should talk to _somebody._ You owe it to yourself.” He peered at her. “Is there anyone at Skyhold you trust?”

Hawke paused. If he’d tried to get her to open up himself, she probably would have ignored him. If he’d phrased his question differently, she might have asked for Varric. And if he’d left out the word _‘owe’_ , she would have denied that she needed anyone at all. 

As it was, she could not help but think of Cullen’s parting words to her at Skyhold.

 _“The people we wanted to help are still out there, Hawke. They still need us. We_ owe _it to them to try.”_

She looked away. “Cullen,” she said, before she could question herself. 

“Rutherford?” Alistair said, his eyebrows raising. “Cullen Rutherford?”

“Yes.”

Alistair clearly hadn’t expected that answer. After a few blinks, he said, “Well, now I’m a little offended.” Hawke’s gaze snapped to him. He held up his hands in surrender. “Kidding! That was a joke. Cullen Rutherford it is.” He went to his pack, scrambled around for a moment, and came back with a strip of velum, a quill, and a travel-sized ink pot. “Okay. Write to Cullen.”

“I can’t,” Hawke replied. “The whole council will read it, and--”

“Oh, no,” Alistair said. He chuckled. “They won’t. Believe me.” Hawke looked doubtful. “I promise,” he insisted. 

The certainty in his tone swayed her. It wasn’t like she had many other choices. She accepted the vellum, and sat by the fire. After a moment of thought, she began to write.

* * *

Cullen sat in his office, frowning at a report. It was a bad day; the words were beginning to blur together, and he could barely hold his quill. Finally, he gave up, dropping the quill back into its inkpot. 

There was a knock at his door.

“Come in,” he said. Leliana entered. She gave him a searching look as she closed the door behind her. “Leliana. How can I help you?”

“There’s a letter for you,” she said, stepping closer to his desk. Something about her tone expressed amusement.

Cullen’s lips thinned. The old guilt over his family reared its head, but he quickly reminded himself how important his time with the Inquisition was. “I told you that you could leave letters from my sister in the War Room--”

“This is not a letter from your sister,” Leliana interrupted. She handed him a folded piece of paper with the seal still unbroken. A spiky script on the front read: 

_L- yes, the contact is me. I suspect you already knew that. Do me a favor. Don’t read this message or share it with anyone except Commander Rutherford. It’s from a little bird. I’ll explain later. Much love, A_

Cullen glanced up, raising an eyebrow. 

“Oh, don’t give me that look, commander,” Leliana said, her grin escaping. “I had no idea you were on such… _friendly_ terms with the Champion of Kirkwall.”

Cullen sighed. So this was the source of her amusement - she was reading into Hawke’s desire for privacy, assuming them to be closer than they actually were. He could only hope she hadn’t told Cassandra anything yet. “We did work together,” he said by way of an answer. 

“Yes,” Leliana said simply. “I read the book.” 

She stood a moment longer, curiosity radiating off her. Cullen shot her a glare. “Will that be all?” he asked dryly. 

“Yes, commander,” Leliana said, slipping away with a coy smile. “Enjoy the letter.”

Cullen tried not to groan. The moment she was gone, he opened the letter. His annoyance melted into concern. He pulled out a leaf of paper and picked up his quill again, this time barely noticing the shake in his hands. 

* * *

_Cullen,_

_I think I need help._

_I_ _was_ _doing better. But the problem is that there's nothing to do here but dwell. Every day, I collected a bucket of rain in the morning and set it over the fire. I added spring onions, carrots, thyme, and rosemary, and thawed some frozen druffalo meat. Then Alistair and I started talking about the past. We compared war stories. We compared peace stories. We played Person Place Or Thing. We played Xs and Os. Alistair turned down my many attempts to play Fuck Kill Or Marry._

_We’d eat the druffalo stew for lunch, and speculate what Trevelyan was up to. We’d eat the druffalo stew for dinner, and I’d read a chapter of Tale. We’d clean up. I’d go to sleep, or try to. Sometimes the Veil feels too thin for sleep._

_It got to me. All of it._

_Alistair cooks now, and I’m almost out of stories._

_I suppose I need you to chastise me so I’ll stop moping around and actually be useful again._

_Hawke_

* * *

_Hawke,_

_I'm not going to chastise you. I also regret the position in which you find yourself. Perhaps you should put off reading Tale until your return. Committing to new behaviors within a steady routine is hard enough. To do so without a framework, or at least something to distract you, must be even more difficult, and I am not sure confronting the past will have the intended effect._

_My advice is this: distract yourself. Find an occupation. The Chantry says that idle hands are tempted into evil. Sometimes, if I am feeling out of sorts, I clean my desk, or sharpen the swords down at the forge. Having a minor victory under one’s belt can provide a newfound sense of strength and accomplishment._

_-Cullen_

_PS, I am aware that you actually enjoy exotic foods, but I must admit that the stew you describe sounds very good. Or at least, it sounds like the stew my mother made me as a child, and much more to my taste than what they serve here at Skyhold. Josephine and the Inquisitor have conspired to wipe the kitchens clean of anyone who’d even suggest stew as an acceptable meal. The other night, I was relieved to see druffalo on the menu, only to be served a plate of raw meat, chopped up with an egg yolk. I asked Josephine if perhaps the staff had forgotten to actually cook it, and was upbraided for my ignorance. Apparently, it is a popular Rivaini dish, by way of the Anderfels._

* * *

_Cullen,_

_Andraste preserve me, if you were anymore Ferelden, you'd bark at messengers._

_Hawke_

* * *

After that, there was silence. He must have deemed her last note unworthy of a response. It was a shame. She thought for a moment there that she'd glimpsed something resembling a personality beneath the layers of steel, lyrium, judgement, and piety that made up Cullen Rutherford. 

Apparently she’d been wrong. 

Still, he was trying to help her. And he was not wrong about idle hands. For the next two days, Hawke chewed on his advice. _Find an occupation,_ he’d written _._ Easier said than done, given the circumstances. She tried cleaning the cave, but there wasn’t much to clean. Her staff was in good shape and didn’t need mending. And he’d recommended she stop reading _Tale_ for the time being. 

Hawke realized she hadn’t had developed too many hobbies over the years. Well. Unless one counted losing family members and killing things as hobbies. 

Which was how, at last, the idea came to her. 

Alistair glanced up as she put on her breastplate. “Going back to the village?” he asked, his voice hopeful. 

“No,” Hawke said. She buckled one strap into place. “I’m going to kill the dragon.”

There was a beat. “The dragon,” Alistair said. “You mean the one down by the old watchtower.”

Hawke gave him a look. "No, the _other_ high dragon hanging about," she said sarcastically. _“Yes,_ the dragon by the watchtower.”

It was a testament to Alistair’s past experiences, or perhaps to her own legendary stubbornness, that the whole of his response was a sigh and a resigned, “Then I suppose I’d better go with you.”

"There’s no need,” Hawke told him, placing her staff to her back. “I'll be fine. I didn't get my title just by looking pretty, you know. And the Inquisition needs you." 

_Unlike me,_ she added in her mind. 

"Come on,” he said, stretching. “It's always easier with two people. That way we can flank it."

Hawke opened her mouth, but then reconsidered. There was a gleam in Alistair’s eye. If _she_ was getting stir crazy, then poor Alistair - who'd been in the cave for over three months now - had to be half-mad with restlessness. And the watchtower was in the opposite direction of the village, meaning the risk of running into a Warden was low.

"Fine," she said. "But I get to keep the scales."

* * *

The dragon had the advantage to start, what with them being on muddy ground and the dragon having wings. Within the first ten minutes, however, Hawke summoned fire. One blast burned a hole straight through the dragon's left wing. She was grounded. Screeching, she spun around to spit bright sparks in Hawke’s direction. 

Hawke let out a loud, creative curse involving at least one Divine and a donkey. She dove out of the way. There was an odd ache to her face. She reached to feel for a bruise, and realized she was grinning. 

"Oy!" Alistair cried out, waving his sword arm. The dragon's long neck twisted toward him. "Over here!"

" _That's_ your battle cry?" Hawke yelled over the field with a laugh. _"'Oy over here?'"_

"Not all of us fight like we're trying to make a Chantry sister blush, Hawke!" Alistair shouted, keeping his gaze on the dragon. His shield was half-raised. The dragon had lowered her head closer to the ground and was in the process of snapping at him with her massive jaws. "And _'oy over here!_ ' worked on the archdemon, I'll have you know!"

“Fair enough!" Hawke replied. 

She tugged at the air with her free hand. A wall of ice erupted beneath the dragon. It made the beast stumble. Alistair dug his sword into her chest. She roared, leaping onto her haunches. Alistair lost the grip and she took the sword with her. Hawke zapped it with some arcane energy. It fell to the muddy ground. 

"Thank you!" Alistair called, lifting it.

“Welcome!” she called back. 

He attacked again, this time going for its leg. The dragon focused all its attention on him. Seeing her chance, Hawke braced herself and took a running jump. With a shout, she jammed the blade side of her staff into a point between the dragon’s ribs. 

The blade went deep.

The dragon froze. With a rattling roar, she shook herself, throwing Hawke off her side. Hawke landed and rolled twice through the mud. She watched from the ground as the dragon stumbled again, trying to find her footing.

After another weak roar, the dragon collapsed, dead. 

Alistair sheathed his sword and walked over to her. He held out his hand. 

“Whew!” she said as he pulled her to her feet. “That felt great.”

“I haven’t done anything that exciting in ages,” Alistair agreed. He gave her a sidelong glance. “One question, though. Did you mean to ask it for its name first?”

“She,” Hawke explained helpfully. “High dragons are female. And I did that in case it was a person in disguise.” Alistair stared at her blankly, but she just brushed her hands on her pants. “So! How do we feel about killing bandits?” she asked cheerfully. 

“Bandits?” Alistair asked. He glanced over his shoulder with a frown. “You want to storm the fortress?”

“I think we’re on a roll. And the gang in there has made themselves _quite_ a nuisance for the locals.”

He rubbed his jaw. “That’s pretty close to the village.”

“We killed a dragon, Alistair. I think we can handle a couple of Wardens, if push comes to shove.”

“I’m still not sure how I feel about killing my fellow Wardens.”

“Well, they seem pretty confident how they feel about killing _you,_ so forgive me for not being magnanimous.”

Alistair looked back at her. “You do have a point.” He seemed to weigh his options. Finally, he shrugged. “Alright.”

“Yes!” Hawke said, pumping one fist. “That’s the spirit!” 

“But _only_ if we can play Person, Place, Or Thing on the way.”

“Alright,” she agreed. “But no more Divines. I can never keep track of them.”

“What else am I supposed to do with this Chantry education?” Alistair asked dryly, motioning at his head. “That was rhetorical, by the way. I know my options, and I really don’t think I’m well suited to any of them--”

 _“Person,”_ Hawke snapped with a glare, “place, or thing?”

Alistair took her annoyance in stride. “Person.”

“Man?”

“Yes.” 

Hawke narrowed her eyes. “Have I met him?”

“Yes.”

“Alive?”

“Very much so. And thankful of the fact, at that.”

Hawke pursed her lips again. “You’re not doing yourself again, are you?”

“Well, you told me I couldn’t do Divines, didn’t you?” With a groan, Hawke started walking toward the fortress. Alistair hurried after her. “Hey! Wait - Hawke! It’s your turn now! Person Place Or Thing?”

* * *

Inquisitor Tahani Shahd Jamila Kiran Trevelyan, previously of Ostwick, and most recently of Skyhold, stood at Crestwood’s basecamp, looking out over the dreary scene around her. It was a dismal place, and yet, she could not help but smile. Hopefully, six weeks in the middle of nowhere had reminded Hawke that she was _not_ Inquisitor, and that _Trevelyan’s_ organization was not at her beck and call. 

Harding was saying something about the mayor and a rift under a lake--Trevelyan shuddered to think of it. And apparently Crestwood had its own problems with the undead. She'd hoped to leave walking corpses behind in the Fallow Mire. At least this place wasn’t a swamp, she supposed. 

“What is it with bodies of water and the dead rising?” Dorian complained behind her. 

Varric snorted. “Why so blue, Sparkler? Isn't the dead rising sort of your thing?”

Dorian rolled his eyes. “And I suppose you enjoy arrows just as much when they’re flying _at_ you.”

Trevelyan dragged the conversation back on track. “So how do we get under the lake?” she asked Harding. 

“Oh, don’t worry. Hawke drained it for you already.”

Trevelyan stared at her. “She _what?”_

“She drained the lake. She also captured you a fortress and killed a dragon. And found evidence of the mayor being the person who flooded old Crestwood in the first place.” Harding waved in the direction of an imposing tower in the distant. “He’s locked up in the fortress, awaiting your judgement.”

Trevelyan crossed her arms. Her good mood was rapidly fading. As if to add insult to injury, Dorian broke in, asking, “I’m sorry, did you say a _dragon?”_

“Yeah! You should see the size of its corpse! It's head alone--”

Trevelyan interrupted with a shake of her head. “Thank you, Harding,” she said, hiding her annoyance. “If we're not back by dawn, send a search party.”

* * *

Hawke’s Warden contact was Alistair Therein. _Of course_ he was. Everything Hawke did was effortlessly perfect, like somehow Varric had created his ideal protagonist and brought her to life. As Hawke introduced him, Tahani kept her face neutral. Then the two of them began exchanging light banter, however, and she felt the little cool she had left slipping away. She could tell she was radiating tension from the odd look Varric gave her. 

This was absurd. Trevelyan had sent Hawke to Crestwood to remind her who was in charge. The Champion of Kirkwall was meant to reflect on the wide, wide, _wide_ gap between their relative experiences--not kill dragons, and capture fortresses, and flirt with legendary warriors who had royal heritage. If anyone should be flirting with King Maric’s son, it was she - _Inquisitor_ Tahani Trevelyan. 

The situation could not get any worse. 

And then, impossibly, it did.

“Hang on a sec!” Alistair said, snapping his fingers. His eyes lit up. “I _do_ know you! I knew it.” He grinned. “Tahani Trevelyan. You’re Kamilah’s sister!”

Trevelyan felt a sinking sensation deep within the pit of her stomach. She’d all but _bribed_ Leliana to keep that little fact from the Inner Circle. The last thing she needed at Skyhold was the scrutiny and torturous praise that always followed. 

Evidently, that had been in vain. Alistair had not even hesitated. Varric and Dorian were staring at her with widening eyes. 

_“Kamilah?”_ Varric asked, shock and awe in his voice. A shock and awe that she'd never heard in his voice when discussing _her._ And she'd walked the bloody _Fade._ He went on. “The pirate hunter? You’re her sister?”

“Half-sister,” Trevelyan told him after a pause. “She’s my father’s natural child. A product of some affair with a Rivaini seer, as I understand it.”

Alistair snorted, crossing his arms. _“‘Natural child.’_ I always enjoyed that euphemism. What does that make the other children? _Unnatural?”_

Varric was still giving Trevelyan an appraising look. “Man. _Kamilah._ The Queen of the Waking Sea. That's amazing.”

“Ridiculous title,” Tahani muttered under her breath. “As if a body water could represent any sort of domain. Who would even be her subjects? The squids?” 

Varric ignored her. “What I wouldn’t give to interview _her.”_

Dorian broke in. “Is it true that your father made her his heir after she stopped a trade war between Nevarra and Ostwick?” he asked. “Putting her ahead of his four legal children.”

“Including you,” Varric added. 

Trevelyan gave them both a tight smile. “That is what happened, yes.”

“And your mother approved,” Varric added. 

“That’s correct.”

“Despite not being _her_ mother.”

Trevelyan tried not to look too put out by this fact. “Kamilah is... an extremely impressive woman.”

Hawke looked vaguely amused. “Sounds like it.”

“I met her in Denerim once,” Alistair observed. In an aside to Hawke, he added, “She’s friends with Isabela.”

Hawke barked out a laugh. “A pirate hunter and a pirate? That seems inauspicious.”

Alistair chuckled. “Well. Isabela’s fondness for freeing slaves seems to have won Kam over, at least.”

 _Kam?_ Trevelyan thought to herself, furious. _He calls her K_ _am?_ _Maker, is_ _nothing sacred?_ She breathed deeply, giving herself at least a little credit for not bringing Cole. Imagining what he might say if he could hear her thoughts right then was a chilling prospect. 

She cleared her throat. “As happy as I’d be to make introductions in the future, I do believe our focus should be on what Alistair knows. Whatever Corypheus is doing with the Wardens needs to be our top priority.”

“Actually,” Hawke said, pulling a note out of her armor, “the Winter Palace should be out top priority.” She unfolded the paper, handing it to Trevelyan. “Leliana wasn't sure she could reach you on the road. She wrote that our efforts will be required in stopping an assassination attempt in Halamshiral.”

Trevelyan blinked at the note before taking it. Sure enough, her spymaster’s neat script informed her that they’d succeeded in gaining invitations for the Inner Circle - Hawke and Alistair included. Trevelyan tried very hard not to crush the words between her palms.

She forced a smile. “Excellent,” she said, glancing up at Hawke. “Of course. Fabulous. So happy you could join us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In all of my crazy crossover ideas, I've done a lot of weird casting... but I think Alistair as the 'Best Person' sash is probably my weirdest. 
> 
> Oh and yes, I realize I've made the jealousy/animosity between Eleanor and Tahani more pronounced. It has to last longer, so I'm trying to make Hawke hit all of Trevelyan's buttons. 
> 
> Hope you continue to enjoy!


	6. Chapter 6

**_Excerpt from Solas’s Journal_ **

_Halamshiral, 9:41 Dragon._

_Attempt 2_

_We have arrived at the Winter Palace. The Inquisitor's party follows. Josephine expects them as soon as Thursday, if the weather holds._

_According to reports, a Grey Warden travels with them. It would seem that the Champion of Kirkwall remains well-connected, even in Tabris’s absence. I am not concerned. This Warden is a human who fought during the most recent Blight. Leliana considers him a personal friend. She mentioned to me that he was raised in the Chantry and once trained as a Templar. It is doubtful, then, that he will share Warden Tabris's particular penchant for studying ancient elven artifacts._

_I cannot help but wonder whether Briala will be able to sway Trevelyan toward her cause without Tabris's influence._

_I suspect not._

_\--Solas_

* * *

As they rode west, Hawke’s sojourn in Crestwood began to look more and more like a blessing in disguise. Much as she hated to admit it, Trevelyan had been right. Hawke _had_ been out of shape when she arrived at Skyhold. Desert living had kept her scrappy rather than fit, and Trevelyan set a relentless pace over the mountains. It was only thanks to Crestwood that Hawke and her borrowed hot blood were able to keep up at all. By the end of the journey, she was exhausted and haggard. Trevelyan, on the other hand, _glowed._ She looked striking astride her white stallion, as if she hadn’t been near a cave or a mountain in weeks. 

Hawke wasn’t sure if she wanted to strangle the woman or make out with her. 

Josephine met them at the gates. She’d rented stalls at a stable somewhere in the city. As they walked the horses through the busy streets, she explained that the Inquisition itself was welcome to stay at the palace, but that the Empress’s invitation did not extend to Hawke and Alistair. They’d have to find an inn, further into the town. 

“What a _shame,”_ Trevelyan said innocently. 

Hawke rolled her eyes. Definitely strangling, then. 

The horses were fed, watered, and brushed. Hawke swung her pack over her shoulder. Trevelyan gave her a cheerful look as they exited the stable, a bounce in her step. 

“Well, I suppose this is where we part ways,” she said. 

“Actually,” Varric said, gesturing at Hawke and Alistair, “I think I’m going to bunk with these guys. I spotted some Carta folks on the way in. I can handle them, but I’d rather not get bloodstains on Celene’s drapes the day before her big party.”

Even that didn’t dimn Trevelyan’s brilliant smile. “As you like,” she said. With a little wave, she turned and said, “Ta, darlings! See you at the ball.” 

She walked away, taking Josephine by the arm. Apparently, she was far too pleased that Hawke would be in some seedy part of town, drinking cheap ale, while she dined on potted hare with the Empress. Well, the joke was on Trevelyan. Hawke loved cheap ale and seedy inns.

The potted hare would have been nice, though.

Dorian hung back. “I’ve never been to Halamshiral before,” he said to Hawke. “Perhaps I could join you all for a drink after dinner? See the sights? Meet the locals?”

“Sparkler!” Varric exclaimed with a grin. “You want to slum it with the likes of _us_ for an evening? I’m flattered.”

“For the society, of course. I may have a fondness for the finer things in life, but it rarely extends to the finer _people,_ if you take my meaning.”

Hawke adjusted her pack, avoiding Dorian’s eye. “I don’t think the inn will serve anything you like, Pavus."

Peripherally, she could see him pause and cross his arms. "I assure you, I am not nearly as fussy as Varric would have you believe. I would never survive the tavern at Skyhold if I were."

"It’s fine. I'm pretty tired anyway," she lied. "We’ll have to take a rain check.” She nodded toward Trevelyan and Josephine. “Go on. They’re waiting for you.”

Dorian looked disappointed, but not surprised. “Ah, well,” he said with a cautious smile. “Another time, then.”

Hawke watched him as he joined Trevelyan and Josephine. The top of the Winter Palace was barely visible over the top of a row of buildings. The three of them walked toward it, disappearing into the busy streets. 

Hawke turned. With a jerk of her head, she indicated that Varric and Alistair should follow. She led the way, despite not having directions. Over the years, she’d developed a sixth sense for finding inns, taverns, and places of ill repute. Varric obediently matched her pace. Alistair trailed behind them. 

“What’d he do to deserve that?” Varric asked. 

“Dorian?” Hawke asked. “He spent the entire trip here trying to… _woo_ me.” Varric started to object, but Hawke cut him off. “No, I don’t mean like _that.”_ She grimaced. “I think he wants to become friends.” 

“Oh, no,” Alistair drawled, mimicking the offended tone of her voice. “Not _friends.”_

“The audacity,” Varric agreed. 

“The horror.”

“The very idea!”

Hawke pointedly glared ahead. “I don’t need more people in my life.”

“Yeah, because you already have so many,” Varric said dryly. “You’ve been a hermit for four years, Hawke. Maybe it’s time to climb out of that shell.” 

“Varric. Are you calling me a hermit _crab?”_

He ignored that. “Come on. Admit it. You could use some friends.”

“I have friends,” Hawke insisted. Varric looked unimpressed, and she narrowed her eyes. “I _definitely_ have friends.”

“Name five of them.”

“Well, you for starters,” she replied. 

He rolled his eyes. “Sure. I’ll be the free space on this metaphorical Bingo board. Four more.” 

Hawke considered. As they reached the poorer part of town, the streets got thinner and more uneven. They had to slow their pace. A workhorse plodded into their path, and they were briefly split into two parties. 

“I’m waiting,” Varric reminded her once they came back together. 

“Well… there’s Merrill.”

“Merrill hasn’t said more than ten kind words to you since you refused to give her that elven… whatever…. thingie.”

“The Arulin'Holm,” she said with a frown. That was true. Six years of friendship, gone with a single choice. The memory stung. And then, to twist the knife, it turned out that she’d meddled with the plans of the wrong apostate. “Aveline, then,” she said.

“I asked you how many friends you had, not adopted elderly aunts trapped in a bulwark’s body.” 

”Oh, that’s not fair,” she said. “Just because she mothers me doesn’t mean she isn’t a friend.”

“That's not what I meant. When was the last time she wrote you and it wasn't your birthday?”

Hawke frowned. She couldn’t remember. She conceded the point and moved on. “Isabela?” 

_“Hawke.”_

“What?” she said. “We’re on civil terms. For now.”

“Uh huh,” Varric said.

“We had a nice time, that one night at Skyhold.”

“A night of drinking together does not a friendship make. And I’m disqualifying anyone who once abandoned you and, more importantly, _me,_ in a burning city to deal with a raging horde of Qunari.”

“Then I suppose that means Anders is--”

“Anders is _definitely_ disqualified,” he interrupted before she could finish, giving her an offended look. “Andraste’s ass, Hawke. Why would you even suggest him?”

“Well, I don’t know. I didn’t _kill_ him or anything,” she pointed out. 

Behind them, Alistair snorted. “Charming. You can weave that into your friendship bracelet. _‘I didn’t kill you! Besties for life!’_ ”

Hawke turned to glower at him before going back to Varric. “Sebastian?”

“Hawke,” Varric said again, exasperated. _“He’s literally at war with you.”_ She opened her mouth, and Varric said, “Nope. Nuh-uh. Don’t even _try_ to list Junior.”

“He writes me,” she argued. 

“Only because you’re family. And you feel the same way. You’ve told me a million times how much you hate his guts.”

Hawke thought harder. She had to admit she was running low on names. She just didn't like spending time around other people these days. Less likely she'd have to end up killing them that way. 

Then an obvious answer came to her. “Oh! Alistair!” she exclaimed. “Alistair is my friend.”

Varric’s eyebrows climbed. _“Him?”_ he asked, pointing over his shoulder.

 _“Me?”_ Alistair said with an equal measure of disbelief. 

“Yes.”

Alistair whistled, long and low. “Boy, I thought Varric was kidding, but if I’m number two on your top five friend list, then you really _are_ scraping the bottom of the barrel.”

“Why?” Hawke asked, a little hurt. “You don’t like me?”

“No! I mean, yes! I mean….” Alistair blew out a breath. “I like you just fine, Hawke. I do consider you _a_ friend. But top five?” He shook his head. “We barely know each other!”

“How can you say that? We spent six weeks cooped up in a cave together.”

“Right. But we never _bonded.”_

“We killed a dragon together,” she said, turning around to walk backwards. “That doesn’t count?”

“I’ve killed a lot of things with a lot of people, but I wouldn’t call them all my friends.”

“We traded stories,” she insisted. 

“Sure. The surface stuff. You never told me your opinions about things, or your personal beliefs.” He gestured at Varric. “Like that you hate your brother’s guts.”

“Really?” Varric asked, genuinely surprised. “That’s her favorite topic.”

“The most personal question you ever answered was Person, Place, Or Thing.”

Hawke chewed on her thumbnail. It wasn’t an _inaccurate_ description of their time in Crestwood. “Well, we didn’t try to kill each other,” she said at last. 

“Back to the not killing thing!” Alistair laughed. “Maker. By that standard, I’m friends with Morrigan, too. Which… no. I'm really, really not.” He gave Hawke a sidelong glance. “I notice you haven’t mentioned Rutherford yet. Don’t you have some sort of… I don’t know, casual camaraderie with him or something?”

“Curly?” Varric exclaimed before Hawke could say anything. She winced at the amusement in his voice. Varric was still clueless about her correspondence with Cullen. “That's a laugh. He and Hawke hate each other.”

“Do they?” Alistair asked, confused. 

“Oh, yeah. Big time.”

Alistair glanced between Hawke and Varric. By some miracle, he read the situation correctly. “I see,” he said simply. “My mistake.”

“Okay, so I don’t have that many friends,” Hawke said, dragging the conversation away from the topic of Cullen. “But who cares? I don’t need them. Obviously.”

“Alright," Varric said. "I’ll let sleeping dogs lie for now. But once this whole Corypheus thing is over….” He paused, not noticing how Hawke’s whole world tilted at the magister’s actual name. “Well. We need to get you into some social situations.”

“I’m going to a ball, aren’t I? You should be thrilled.” Hawke stopped walking and squinted at a sign. Her Orlesian was a little rusty, but she was fairly sure she was looking at an inn called Peter’s Horse. Or perhaps it was The Stone Pony. Either way, the faded painting of a bed and a mug of ale was unmistakable. “Here,” she said, pointing. “This place will do.”

They went inside. It was nothing to write home about, but after two weeks of travel, and four years in the desert, Hawke wasn’t going to complain. Varric went to pay for their rooms. She turned to Alistair, about to speak, but he waved her off.

“Don’t worry,” he said in a low tone. “I’m not going to tell him about the letters. You have your reasons, I’m sure. Your secret’s safe with me.” 

Hawke relaxed. “Thank you, Alistair.”

“Don’t mention it.” He looked at her, amused. “You know, I hear it's something _good fr_ _iends_ do for each other.”

Varric returned a moment later, a single key dangling. “Hope you guys don’t mind sharing a suite.”

 _“Maker,”_ Hawke complained. “You and your suites. What if a girl wanted some privacy?”

“It was the only room left,” Varric said.

The innkeep overheard, looking up. “It was _not_ the only--,” he began in a heavy Orlesian accent.

“Welp,” Varric said over him, ushering Hawke and Alistair toward the staircase with a sense of urgency. “Time for some food, don’t you think? It’s been a long-ass journey, and I’m starving.”

* * *

The room had a fireplace, a comfortable-looking reading chair, and two doors leading to bedrooms on opposite walls. In the middle sat a table with four chairs. There was a writing desk in front of one of the windows. Hawke found herself impressed with how clean it was. Maybe there was something to be said for Orlesian sensibilities. 

Alistair glanced between the doors with a frown. “Only two rooms. How will we bunk?”

“Even if we had a third bedroom, I’d fall asleep in the reading chair anyway,” Varric told him.

“He prefers being put to sleep by his own writing,” Hawke explained.

“Hey!” Varric said, offended. “It's called editing, and it's an exhausting process.” 

“Sure.” She put down her bag and shuffled through it, grabbing a change of clothes. “I call dibs on the first bath.”

Neither of the men protested, so she went down to the inn’s shared washing chamber. Much like the room, the bath was a pleasant surprise. It was copper, featuring dwarven plumbing and an enchanted rune. The soap even looked like it had once been shaped like a flower, or perhaps a swan. She took a tentative sniff. It smelled like lavender. 

“Oh, I’m definitely coming back here before I leave,” she murmured to herself. 

A few minutes later, she slid into the steaming tub. Sighing, she let the weeks, months, and even years soak out of her. _Maker._ How long had it been since she’d used a bathing chamber? It had to have been the Amell estate. _Her_ estate, really, though she rarely thought of it in those terms. She had not set foot inside of the house in years. Varric assured her he had people taking care of it. 

She took a slow breath, closing her eyes. For the first time in weeks, her mind stopped spinning. A minute passed, and all she thought about was heat and the sweet smell of the citrus oil she’d added to the hot water. 

Then she opened her eyes. She grabbed the soap and started a healthy lather. True relaxation would have to wait. There were too many uncertainties - uncertainties in the now, and uncertainties regarding the other future. She’d been able to ignore it in Crestwood, where there was nothing she could do, but now she needed to focus. Cullen was at the Winter Palace, thank the Maker. Hopefully, he’d observed something useful in her absence. She wondered if she should try to sneak out and meet him before the ball.

She snorted. She never thought she’d look forward to seeing Cullen Rutherford, but then, these were strange times. Even without the note, there were demon armies, and tears in the Veil, and ancient magisters come back to life. 

But the note _was_ the strangest factor, she had to admit. 

She wondered what horrors the other Hawke had encountered. Cullen’s tale about Redcliffe’s dark future had left her anxious. Had Corypheus succeeded in the other Hawke's timeline as well? Did the Venatori win? Was red lyrium involved? She sighed, soaping her hair. Why had the other Hawke provided so little information? Had she been rushed? Cullen was helping her overcome her… _malaise,_ to be sure, but there had to be something more valuable she could have shared. Key knowledge that Hawke could give the right person, and then return to the desert, where strange men from Tevinter didn’t invite themselves over for drinks, and Varric never lectured her about friends. 

Whatever the danger, she was increasingly sure it was _not_ Trevelyan. The Inquisitor’s brand of cruelty was just too petty to be evil. Corypheus might think of her as a sewer rat, but she doubted he’d _boop_ her on the nose, given the chance. 

As she rinsed her hair, her mind went back to Cullen. How _had_ the other Hawke come around on her view of him? She was beginning to, yes, but only because of the note. Without that, she would have still considered him a stuck-up prig - a walking, talking sword of Mercy. 

Actually, she _did_ still consider him a stuck-up prig. She just trusted him now. A little bit. 

She slipped beneath the water. There was no point in asking these questions. It was an exercise in futility. As far as she could tell, no one remembered the other future, so no one could answer them. 

The important thing was to try and figure out who was responsible. 

* * *

By the time Hawke returned from her bath, dinner had been served. A pot of sausage and cabbage stew had been set out on the table, with two long loafs of bread next to it. Hawke’s stomach reminded her it had been a very long time since she last ate anything but bland druffalo stew and dried travel food. There was one used bowl, one clean bowl, and one bowl currently being demolished by Alistair. He was scarfing down his food like a mabari who hadn’t eaten in six weeks. 

“Wow,” she said as she sat in front of the clean bowl. “I didn’t realize my stew was that bad.” 

He swallowed. “On the contrary,” he said. “It was excellent for the first week and a half. But you _were_ working with a limited kitchen. Easy to get bored, you know.” He looked down at his stew. “And these sausages are amazing.” Piercing one with a fork, he squinted at it. “I think they have fennel in them?”

“Ah, yes,” Hawke said. “Variety is the spice of life.” She watched him stuff the whole sausage in his mouth. “Or… fennel is the spice of life in this case, I guess.” She glanced around the room. “Where’s Varric?”

As if summoned by her question, Varric emerged from one of the bedrooms. He’d changed into fresh armor, and strapped Bianca onto his back. “Hawke,” he said cheerfully. “You’re looking marginally less like a Witch of the Wilds.”

Alistair choked through a chuckle. He coughed and took a swig of water. “Well, she _is_ a witch,” he rasped once he’d recovered. “And we _were_ in the wilds.”

“See?” Hawke said, ladling herself some stew. “I was just trying to look the part.” Her eyes flicked over his armor. “Big plans tonight?”

“Yeah,” Varric said. “Gonna go deal with those Carta thugs I mentioned.”

“They’re real?” Hawke asked, surprised. She tore off a chunk of bread and slathered it in butter. “And here I thought you were eager for my company.”

“They’re real. Your company is just an extra guerdon.”

“Ooh,” she said, grinning. _“Guerdon?”_ She glanced at Alistair. “Maker's breath. Three hours in Halamshiral, and he’s breaking out the fancy words.”

Alistair poured himself some more stew. “If you wait, we can come with. After we eat, I mean.” He looked a little sheepish. “Might take me a few more helpings.”

“Nah,” Varric said. “Too risky.”

Hawke made a _pfft_ sound. “Oh, yes. Thank you for thinking of us delicate, wilting flowers.” 

“Actually, I’m more worried about the citizens of Halamshiral.”

As he spoke, Hawke took a bite of stew and was immediately distracted. Alistair wasn’t kidding. The sausage was sweet, savory, and gamey all at once, and the pickled cabbage cut through its grease with a light burst of brine.

“Oh, _cuisine,”_ she sighed at her bowl. “I missed you so much.” She pierced another piece of sausage. “Is this elk?” she asked Alistair. He shrugged, his mouth full.

Varric began making motions to leave. “You’ll be happy to hear I ordered us some ale. The good stuff. Just because we’re not dining with the Empress doesn’t mean we can't enjoy being within the confines of civilization again.” 

“Varric, you absolute angel,” Hawke cooed. “You’ll spoil me.” 

He gave her a grin as he opened the door. “Well, somebody has to. Try not to finish it all without me, alright?”

“No promises!” Hawke called after him as the door slammed shut. It was an old inside joke from Kirkwall. Just saying it made her smile. 

* * *

They didn’t finish _all_ the ale without Varric. 

They did make a very serious attempt, however. Two hours later, Hawke was feeling very warm and a little bit giddy. She slouched in the reading chair that would serve as Varric’s bed, while Alistair lounged on the carpet in front of the fireplace, leaning back on his elbows. With his earlier comments on her mind, Hawke had asked Alistair to tell her a bit about himself. 

“You know,” she’d said, leaning over the plush arm of the chair. “So we can _bond.”_

Alistair had winced. “In hindsight, that sounded way worse than what I was thinking. I just meant that I--”

Hawke had waved him off. “I know. It’s fine. Just... tell me something interesting about yourself.”

So Alistair had told her about his childhood. He kept his tone light, but she could tell some of it was worse than what he was sharing. She didn’t press; Maker knew she did the same thing sometimes. Fortunately, he moved on to his Chantry years, which were far more hilarious than she'd anticipated. Currently, she was laughing hysterically at his impression of the Revered Mother from his youth who always fell asleep part way through reading the Chant out loud to the orphans on Sunday mornings.

“... so one of the other boys replaced the page in front of her with a leaf from the Randy Dowager,” he said. “And then he startled her. She jerked awake, started reading again, and got _three full sentences_ before she noticed.” Hawke was laughing so hard she snorted. Alistair gave her a pained look. “That was the first time I heard a woman say the word _bosom.”_

“Maker’s _breath,”_ Hawke managed.

Alistair glanced around the room. “Where is Varric?" he wondered suddenly. “Surely it doesn’t take _this_ long to kill a handful of thugs.”

“Maybe there’s more than a handful,” Hawke said, settling back. “Or maybe he’s having trouble finding them.” She burped. “Or maybe he’s lying about the thugs and he’s doing something else entirely. Really, there’s no telling with Varric.”

“Why on earth would he do that?”

“Lie?” Hawke said. She slid down in the chair. It _was_ very comfy. “It’s Varric. Lying comes to him more easily than breathing water.”

Alistair blinked slowly at her, amused. “Oh, is breathing water easy for you? I didn't realize the Hawkes were mermen. Or is that from the Amell side of the family?”

“Oh, shit,” Hawke said, realizing her mistake. She squeezed her eyes shut. “More easily than breathing _air,_ I meant. Or… or I meant that he took to lying like a duck takes to water. One or the other.” 

"I figured," Alistair said, chuckling. He glanced up at her. “Since we’re doing personal questions… can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Is it true what Varric said about Rutherford?”

“What, that we hate each other?” Hawke asked. She hesitated. “Yes… and no. We used to. Well, I used to hate him.” She twisted the hem of her shirt. “I’m not sure he ever hated me.”

Alistair processed that, looking at the fire. He turned his gaze back to her. “Then why was he the one you wrote to?”

Hawke almost confessed that she’d been wondering the same thing herself. But that would be betraying the fact that there’d been another timeline - that they’d all been through this before. And Cullen had vetoed Alistair. Not to mention, she wasn’t sure she needed to add anything to Alistair’s plate. He seemed to carry his current burdens heavily enough. 

She tried to think of the kindest thing she could say about Cullen Rutherford. A memory flashed, one from nearly half a decade ago, now - the image of him stepping between her and Meredith. Sword raised, eyes hard, damp curls sticking to his sweaty forehead. The shock and gratitude and surprise and _relief_ she’d felt in her chest when she’d realized what he was doing. 

And then, suddenly, she understood.

She knew why the other her had trusted him. 

Alistair cleared his throat. “Listen. If you don’t want to answer, you really don't--”

“The people I listed today,” Hawke said, cutting him off. “They all left me. They abandoned me. Carver joined the templars. Isabela fled the city. Merrill - well, I guess in a sense, I betrayed Merrill. But I thought I was doing the right thing. And she never forgave me. Anders--.” When she looked at Alistair, he was uncharacteristically serious, waiting for her to finish. “Everyone knows what happened with Anders. Sebastian ditched me when I let Anders go. And Fenris stood against me when I decided to protect the mages. Only Varric and Aveline stayed. And Aveline - she never really liked me, I don’t think. She just felt obligated to be there, since everyone else…. Well. Everyone else died, or left me.”

“I’m sorry,” Alistair said in a sincere tone.

Hawke looked at her hands, wondering how she hadn’t seen it before. When she next spoke, it was with the other Hawke in mind - the one who’d sought out Cullen herself, who’d accepted his help, and gone on to see him as her only hope. And now, Hawke understood. 

“Everyone else left me,” she repeated. “They drifted away like…. Like paper boats on a pond. Everyone except Cullen. He never lied about who he was, or expected me to be someone I can't be. We drifted closer.” She smiled at Alistair. “In the end, Cullen Rutherford joined my side.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not even trying to prevent anachronisms. Look, this is a crossover between a game about zombie dragons and a sitcom about moral ethics philosophy starring Ted Danson. You knew what you signed up for. So Varric plays bingo? Sure. Alistair knows the word besties? Bring it on.
> 
> Also, kudos if you caught my little reference to another TV show I love. :D 
> 
> Hope you continue to enjoy!


	7. Chapter 7

**_Excerpt from Solas’s Journal_ **

_Halamshiral, 9:41 Dragon._

_Attempt 2_

_Tonight, we attend a ball at the Winter's Palace._

_At least this, I can leave in Trevelyan’s capable hands. Vain she may be, but she understands the Game. Last time, Tabris convinced her to allow Celene’s assassination to occur. They promoted Briala as the true ruler, behind the thin veneer of Emperor Gaspard._

_Tonight, I am certain she will choose Celene._

_It does not matter. As long as Orlais is stabilized, we can focus on the Wardens._

_Tomorrow, I will be one step closer to the orb._

_\--Solas_

* * *

“Rise and shine, Champion!”

The sound of Varric’s voice ripped Hawke from the Fade like a hammer shattering glass. She jerked awake, startled. There was a flutter of movement, followed by painfully bright light hitting her in the eyes. She groaned, pulling her blanket over her head as she sunk lower into her - _chair?_ Was she in a chair? Why was she sleeping in a chair?

It didn’t matter, she decided. Varric was wrong. There would be neither rising nor shining. 

A second curtain opened. The world beyond her blanket grew even brighter. She made a noise of protest and curled up into a ball.

“Hawke. It’s time to get up.”

“Fuck off,” Hawke mumbled into the blanket.

“Now, now,” Varric chided. “That’s not very ladylike of you.”

“I’ll show you ladylike.”

“I doubt it,” he said cheerfully. “But I guess there’s a first time for everything.”

She growled. “Fuck _off,_ I said.”

A whimper came from somewhere behind her, on the floor. “Have you two considered the possibility,” Alistair said in a weak voice, “that there is an innocent bystander in this very room and you’re slowly killing him with the sound of your bickering?”

“I _did_ warn you not to drink all the ale,” Varric said. 

“We didn’t,” Hawke said. 

“Are you sure?” Alistair asked. “Because it feels like we might have.”

Varric clapped his hands, making Hawke’s pounding headache worse. “Come on, you two. Look alive. There’s food and water on the table.”

The thought of putting anything in her stomach made her want to hurl, but she heard a ruffle of interest from Alistair’s direction. “What kind of food?” he asked. 

“Cold roast chicken. Potato salad. Some fruit.”

The floor creaked as Alistair stood and went to investigate. Hawke stayed where she was, buried in linen. A moment later, she felt the blankets being tugged off her. 

“Hawke,” Varric said again. He came into view and gave her a pointed look. “You really do need to get up.”

She scowled. “Why?”

“We’ve got the ball tonight.”

“So?” she said. “That isn’t until seven.”

“Yeah,” Varric said dryly. “And it’s mid-afternoon.”

Her eyes widened. She sat up straight, glancing at the window. _“Mid-afternoon?”_

“Yup,” Varric said, turning away. As Alistair helped himself to a leg of chicken, Varric went to the table and poured a mug of water. “I know you guys had a rough time out in Crestwood, so I decided to let you sleep in.”

Hawke grit her teeth. _Maker._ She’d meant to track down Cullen during the day. They wouldn’t be able to speak at the ball - not openly, at least. As the popular saying went, even Orlesian walls had ears. 

She paused. Thinking about Cullen rang a bell. A vaguely remembered, _far_ too personal conversation with Alistair flickered in the periphery of her mind. One in which she’d said some very affectionate things about Cullen. She groaned, putting her head in her hands. Ale always did turn her into a sentimental fool. 

This was why friends were a bad idea. 

“Leliana brought outfits for us,” Varric was saying as he returned. “And, uh. Don’t take this the wrong way, Hawke, but I’d recommend another bath.” He shoved the mug into Hawke’s hands. “Here. Drink up.”

Hawke took it and gulped down a grateful mouthful. She realized that Varric had added elfroot. That would ease her headache. “Thank you,” she told him as she stood up. 

“I hung your dress on your door,” Varric told her, waving at one of the rooms. How he’d decided which door was _hers_ was a mystery. She’d apparently stolen his reading chair, meaning he must have slept in one of the beds last night.

Then she realized what he’d said. “My _dress?”_

There was a twinkle of amusement in Varric’s eyes. “Yeah. A loan from Nightingale. She didn’t think you’d have anything suitable for an Orlesian masquerade.”

Leliana wasn’t wrong. Hawke hadn’t owned a dress since Kirkwall. Her plan had been to wear her armor, but she supposed that didn’t send quite the right message. 

She took another swig of water. It was already coursing through her veins, making her feel more human. On her way to the bedroom, she picked up a handful of berries and popped them into her mouth, hoping she could keep them down. 

Then she closed her door. She almost choked. There was a dress, alright. She stared at it, flabbergasted. 

“Um, Varric?” she called out. “I think there’s been some sort of terrible mistake.”

* * *

“I think there’s been some sort of terrible mistake,” Inquisitor Tahani Trevelyan told Josephine and Leliana as they stood in the guest chambers of the Winter Palace. She looked at the brightly colored uniform laid out on her bed - the one she’d just been told she would be wearing to the ball that evening. “Surely you can’t expect _me_ to wear….” She motioned in the outfit’s general direction. _“This.”_

“It is what we _all_ will be wearing,” Josephine explained apologetically. “We need to appear united in front of the court. It will lend weight to our authority.”

“Our authority?” Trevelyan said. She crossed her arms. “Josie. A marching band looks united, but no one thinks they’re in charge.”

“Inquisitor--”

“And these aren’t even Inquisition colors,” Trevelyan complained.

“Vivid colors are in vogue this year,” Leliana told her. 

Trevelyan levelled Leliana with a glare. “I know what’s in vogue, Leliana. _Vivid_ would be jewel tones. Perhaps something in gold. This? This is just clownish.”

A smirk played on Leliana’s lips. “The goal is to make a statement.”

“And what is this saying exactly?” Trevelyan asked dryly. “That our seamstress is partial to primary colors?”

“That we are a force to be reckoned with,” Leliana said. 

Trevelyan huffed in disbelief. She frowned. “Has _Vivienne_ seen this?”

“Lady Trevelyan,” Josephine said, placing a hand on Trevelyan’s arm. “You are well known at the Orlesian court. Your sense of style is renowned. Surely, no one would question your choice to express your commitment to the Inquisition for _one night.”_ She gave her a sincere look. “Once you have saved Empress Celene, I doubt anyone will care what you’re wearing.”

Trevelyan sighed. Being Inquisitor was worth a few hours in crimson. No mattter _what_ Mother said it did to her skin. “I suppose you’re right,” she said. She gave Josie a little shrug. “I mean, what’s the harm. It’s like my good friend Lady Madeline always says - one doesn’t lose a game of chess with a single move.”

“Precisely,” Josephine said with a smile. 

Leliana clasped her hands behind her back. “We will leave you to prepare. The council will meet in the Vestibule in one hour.” 

“And remember,” Josephine added. “No matter what happens, we must be on our best behavior. This is Orlais. One word, one wrong move--”

“Please, Josie,” Trevelyan interrupted, amused. “I, of all people, know how the Great Game works.”

Josephine relaxed a fraction. “Right. Of course.” She smiled. “I will save my speeches for Sera, then.” She nodded her farewell. “See you soon, Inquisitor.”

* * *

The first part of the evening went smoothly. Hawke and Alistair were running late, thankfully, which spared Trevelyan the trouble of having them announced. She met with Celene and Gaspard - both of whom she knew quite well, of course. She was introduced to Celene’s spymaster and ex-lover, Briala. She nibbled on canapés and chatted with high society, gossiping about Celene’s oddly timed renovations and Gaspard’s choice to wear armor to a ball. It was _so lovely_ to be back amongst her own people. She even danced with Grand Duchess Florianne, much to Josephine’s delight.

And if she maintained reservations about her terrible outfit, those fell by the wayside when she began to investigate. An apostate named Morrigan provided her with a key to the servants quarters. She was horrified to find that someone had slaughtered most of them. With the help of Vivienne, Cassandra, and Blackwall, she unravelled several conspiracies that implicated the two Valmont cousins, as well as the elven spymaster. 

In the end, however, it turned out Grand Duchess Florianne was the one plotting to kill the empress. 

Like an amateur, Florianne left Trevelyan and her party to die in the courtyard. Either Corypheus had not informed her that the anchor could close rifts, or she was more concerned about losing the court’s good approval than she was about risking the Inquisitor’s death. Trevelyan closed the rift as quickly as she could and went back inside to find the council. 

“Well done, Inquisitor!” Josephine exclaimed. “Once Celene begins her speech, we can stop the assassination and expose her to the court.”

“Or,” Leliana said slowly. She paused.

“Or?” Trevelyan asked. 

“We let Celene die. That would pave the way for Gaspard to take control. Possibly with Briala at his side.”

“Or even alone,” Cullen suggested. “The choice is yours, Inquisitor.”

Trevelyan balked at the idea of letting the empress die. “We save Celene, _of course,”_ she told them. “Orlais benefits from the security she represents.” 

“And what of Gaspard and Briala?” Leliana asked. 

Trevelyan let her chest puff with a smile. “I believe I have enough evidence to force them all into a truce.”

Josephine grinned, delighted. “Excellent,” she said. “Then we’ll be able to end this without any more bloodshed.”

“Just make sure you are there when Celene announces her speech,” Leliana advised. Looking amused, she glanced to her left. “Ah - commander. It appears some of your _admirers_ are approaching.”

“Maker’s breath,” Cullen muttered. “If you’ll excuse me.” He stepped around Josephine, heading in the opposite direction. 

“The commander is _very_ popular tonight,” Leliana told Trevelyan in a conspiratorial whisper. “Three separate families have asked me about his lineage.”

Trevelyan laughed. Before she could reply, however, she spotted a familiar face across the room, amongst a group of revellers. Trevelyan’s smile faded. It would seem _Hawke_ had arrived. 

The crowd cleared. Trevelyan saw the rest of Hawke’s outfit. Her mouth dropped open. The Champion of Kirkwall was in a beautiful, deep green silk dress that jutted out over a crinoline at her hips. The neckline was low across her chest and arms, exposing her shoulders and cleavage. Her waist had been cinched into a golden corset with metal bracing. Even at this distance, Trevelyan could see the amethysts and emeralds embedded in the sides. 

“I’m sorry,” Trevelyan said, feeling a swell of heat in her chest. “Hawke is wearing _that?”_

Leliana followed her gaze. “Ah,” she said. “Yes. A piece from my own collection. I did not have a chance to wear it before the Conclave, sadly. But I think it suits the Champion rather well, don’t you?”

Trevelyan glared at her two advisers. “Why isn’t she in the uniform? I thought we all needed to look _united.”_

“The Inquisition does,” Leliana explained. “But Hawke is not part of the Inquisition. As you are fond of reminding us.”

“Besides,” Josephine interjected, “she was not at Skyhold long enough for me to get her measurements.”

Trevelyan looked back at Hawke. She took a deep breath, trying to calm the burning rage in her chest. It did not work. “Excuse me,” she said, stalking off. 

She heard Josephine call out, “Inquisitor, wait!” She ignored that. The ballroom was crowded now; as the night went on, more and more people spilled in from the Vestibule. Finally, Trevelyan made it to Hawke, who was speaking with Blackwall. 

“Champion!” she said, as cheerfully as she could manage. Hawke turned, clearly surprised. Trevelyan saw she was holding an open flask in one hand. The blatant indecency only fueled Trevelyan’s anger. She forced a smile. “Don’t you look stunning! You did forget your mask, though. How _embarrassing.”_

Hawke’s surprise faded into distaste. She opened her mouth, but before she could speak, her eyes flicked over Trevelyan’s shoulder. Her face lit up. “Here, hold this for me, will you?” she said, pushing the flask into Trevelyan’s hands. 

Trevelyan stared after her in shock. The commander was in view, cornered by a group of nobles. As she watched Hawke approach him, she overheard a whispered conversation behind her. 

“What _is_ Lady Trevelyan wearing?” a light Orlesian voice asked. 

“Ridiculous,” someone replied. “You can tell why the father prefers his bastard.”

“Not technically a bastard anymore, though, is she?”

Blackwall slid into the space next to Trevelyan. “Pay them no mind,” he said sternly in a low voice. “Who cares what these idiot nobles think, milady? What matters is that we all look like men of honor.”

Trevelyan rolled her eyes at his attempt to comfort her. Who in Thedas wanted to look like _a man of honor?_ She would prefer to look like a goddess in silk brocade, as she had at the Duke of Kellington’s annual First Day party in 9:39 Dragon. 

She turned to the open flask in her hand. The hardest part of the night was over. All that was left was sharing what she’d learned. 

Mentally, she shrugged. Lifting the flask, she took a long, long swig. 

* * *

In the end, Hawke and Alistair were an hour late to the party. Varric left before them, promising to find them later. He was as good as his word. Minutes after they arrived, he approached them in the Vestibule.

“Hawke,” he said grinning. “You clean up well.”

“Spare me,” she snapped. 

“Aw, what?” he asked, all mock innocence. “You don’t like the dress?”

“This monstrosity barely qualifies as a dress,” she said, trying to flatten her skirt with her hands. She couldn’t even reach the edges. “You could fit a family of four under this skirt. Plus a dog.” She frowned. “That’s not an approximation. I did the measurements. It’s bigger than Gamlen’s hovel.” Varric laughed. She glanced at Alistair, then turned back to Varric. “How come I have to wear the entire garment district of Halamshiral, and he gets to wear his armor?”

“Because the Grey Warden armor is also a uniform,” Alistair answered. He tugged at his belt, trying to loosen it. “And this isn’t technically _mine.”_ He winced. “I don’t even want to know where Leliana found Warden armor at a time like this. I have an uncomfortable feeling the answer is _‘off a dead Warden’.”_

“She had it made,” Varric told him. “We bought the schematic from a Dalish clan.”

“From a _Dalish_ clan?” Alistair looked down at himself. “Wow. That explains why it’s so tight. I thought I overdid it on the stew.”

Varric jerked his head toward the ballroom. “You guys ready?” 

For better or worse, they were. Hawke’s skirt tugged uncomfortably at her waist, slowing her pace. It was difficult to breathe with her corset. She glanced around as they walked through the crowd. At least Orlais was ridiculous enough that she didn’t stand out. A few peoples’ masked gazes followed her. She wondered if they knew who she was, or if it was simply her lack of mask.

“I wish I had my staff,” she murmured. 

“They wouldn’t have let you in,” Varric said. 

“Even better,” Hawke said. Varric gave her a look, and she pouted. “I just feel so exposed.”

Varric’s eyes flicked to her cleavage before meeting hers again. “You _are_ pretty exposed.”

“Thanks,” she said dryly. “I guess they ran out of fabric while making the skirt.” 

They entered the ballroom together. There was no caller. The time for being announced was over. Hawke breathed a sigh of relief. The last thing she needed right then was for a room full of Orlesians to hear her title.

“Where’s Trevelyan?” Alistair asked. 

“In the gardens,” Varric said. “Killing Venatori, if Ruffles is to be believed.”

Hawke couldn’t remember which one Ruffles was. For the moment, she didn’t really care. The mention of the Venatori drew her focus. She needed to find Cullen. 

“Oh, shit,” Varric said to himself, spotting three dwarves huddled conspiratorially by a table of desserts. “Are you kidding me?”

“What?” Hawke asked.

“Carta,” Varric said. He rubbed his chin. 

Alistair narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “Varric. Didn’t you spend over four hours killing Carta thugs last night? How could there possibly be any left in Halamshiral?”

“There’s always more Carta,” Varric replied. “They’re like cockroaches. You crush a five, and a dozen more pop up. Right, Hawke?”

It was true, but she noticed something odd. Varric was tugging on his earring. That was one of his tells in Wicked Grace. “Right,” she said anyway, eyeing the crowd. She could figure out why Varric was lying later. She had bigger fish to fry.

“I better make myself scarce,” Varric said, looking around. “Will you guys be alright?”

“Unarmed with my tits out in the middle of an Orlesian soirée?” Hawke said. “Why, I’ve never felt more at home.”

“You’ll be fine,” Varric said. He walked off. “Just try not to get yourself killed.”

“No promises!” Hawke called back. 

“So,” Alistair said, once Varric had disappeared into the crowd. “What does one _do_ at an Orlesian party, anyway?”

“I’m not sure,” Hawke said. “See any wyverns?”

“Any what?”

“Never mind.” She brushed the thought away. She scanned the crowd again. No annoyingly stylish golden hair. “Actually, I need to find - _someone,”_ she finished lamely.

“You mean Cullen,” Alistair said. When she shot a glare at him, he had a little smile on his face. “Go on. I think it’s cute.”

Hawke’s lips thinned. “I was hoping you’d forgotten that bit of the conversation.”

“No such luck.” Hawke opened her mouth, and Alistair waved her off. “Go on, I said. Find your rubber duck. Or paper boat. Whatever the metaphor was. Last night’s a little fuzzy. I have a person or two I want to look for as well.”

Hawke remembered that he’d been friends with Leliana during the Blight. He probably hadn’t seen her in years. She nodded, and the two of them parted ways. 

The crowd was thick. Hawke was used to having more mobility than the skirt provided. On top of that, she was short, which put her at a distinct disadvantage. Luckily, the Inquisition had chosen a bright red uniform that could be spotted miles away. In her search, she noticed, from a distance, the massive Qunari by a tray of champagne. She spun on her heel and went in the opposite direction. No Qunari today, thank you.

After half an hour, she sighed. Apparently, Cullen was nowhere to be found. 

She passed an open door to an empty, dark room. Peeking in, she saw a woman in the Inquisition uniform with short, choppy hair. “Hello?” she asked. The woman spun, startled. Hawke realized she was an elf. “Excuse me. I didn’t mean to scare you.” The woman just stared at her. “Um, have you seen the commander?”

The woman’s eyes narrowed. She stuck her chin in the air. Striding forward, she held out a coin. 

Confused, Hawke took it. She stared at it. It was smooth and round with a hole in the middle. By the time she’d looked up, the woman was halfway out the door. “Wait!” Hawke exclaimed. The woman didn’t stop. Hawke rushed after her, but when she got to the hallway, the woman was gone. 

“Shit,” Hawke hissed. That was strange. Could the woman know something? She placed the coin in her pocket. 

Soon after, she caught a glimpse of a red arm. Chasing it, she pushed her way through the crowd. “Excuse me,” she called out. “Excuse me! Inquisition?”

But when the person turned, she saw a beard and a pair of blue eyes. 

“Yes?” he asked. His eyes narrowed. “Wait, don’t I know you?”

Hawke had seen him around at Skyhold, but never learned his name. “I don’t think so,” she said, playing dumb. “Sorry. Thought you were someone else.”

His expression became cautious. “I see.”

Hawke glanced around. The ballroom was crowded. This was pointless. She’d have to find Cullen in the morning. She slipped her flask out of her skirts. Unscrewing the top, she lifted it to her lips.

“Champion!” a horribly familiar voice exclaimed. Hawke jumped. When she turned around, there stood Trevelyan, looking as tall and magnificent as ever in that ridiculous uniform. The Inquisitor’s grin widened as she looked Hawke over. “Don’t you look _stunning._ You did forget your mask, though. How embarrassing.”

Hawke grit her teeth. She opened her mouth to say something snide. A flash of red caught her eye. Beyond Trevelyan, in the corner of the ballroom, Cullen stood with his arms crossed, surrounded by Orlesians. 

_Thank the Maker._

“Here, hold this for me, will you?” she said, handing the flask to Trevelyan.

Hawke fought through the crowd, pardoning herself in Common and Orlesian. She pushed past the fawning nobles. Cullen stared straight ahead, as if looking at a fixed point, his jaw clenched. He did not even seem to recognize her as she placed a hand on his arm. 

He snapped his eyes to her. _“Please_ don’t touch--,” he began. He blinked, his eyes clearing. “Hawke,” he said as he relaxed. 

“Commander,” she said, hoping her voice sounded official. “You’re needed by the, ah. Ambassador. At once. It’s very urgent.”

Cullen looked relieved. “Very well,” he said. “Take me to her, please.”

There was a chorus of disappointment from the others, but Hawke ignored them. She kept her hand on Cullen’s arm. She felt, more than saw, Cullen’s confused eyes take her outfit in as she dragged him across the room. 

“What are you wearing?” he asked. 

“Don’t ask,” she said bitterly. Finally, she found an empty balcony. Lowering her voice, she turned to face him. “I think I have a lead.” She pulled out the coin. “An elf with choppy blonde hair gave me _this._ She was in an Inquisition uniform. It could be a clue!”

“An elf with choppy blonde hair?” Cullen said. He blinked at her in disbelief. “Sera? You think _Sera_ is involved somehow?”

“Oh, yeah,” Hawke said, nodding. _“Deeply_ involved. I bet she knows exactly what’s going on.”

* * *

Sera scowled. The room was crawling with the wrongest type of noble. Worse, it was _boring._ After all that piss about the Great Game, she thought there’d be a bit of - what did Leliana call it? _Courtly intrigue._ What Orlesians called babbletalk. So far, all she’d seen was a couple of kids who were too daft to hide their tracks when they snuck off to the closets for a little slap-and-tickle.

And the stupid Inquisitor had kept her off the stupid ground team. _Again._ Shame, really. Sera had two friends on the inside, here. All sorts of good stuff laying about in a fancypants place like this, if you looked for it. Hidden behind locked doors. Buried under rose gardens. Tucked behind velvet curtains. 

Guess it was going to stay there. 

At least the empress was pretty. In love with an elf, though. Of course. _Boring._ All of it sounded like something from one of Varric’s stories. Not one of the good ones, either, with the ‘heaving bosoms’ and the ‘turgid whats-its’. One of the rubbish ones, with the fighting, and killing, and nobles, and all that _who-ends-up-on-top-today_ garbage. 

_Well,_ Sera thought. She snickered. Both were _who-ends-up-on-top-today,_ when you came down to it. 

“Canapé?” a breathy, Orlesian voice said beside her. She glared at the servant, who was holding up a bunch of fancy stuff on a plate. The servants were treating her too nicely. Bringing her wine and bubbly more often than was right. They were proud to see somebody with _ears_ invited, she figured. In a frigging uniform and everything. Buying into this piss as much as the masked ones were. 

“Piss off,” Sera said, drinking deep from her cup. 

The elf’s eyes widened. He gulped like a fish. He nodded once, then darted away, terrified. 

“Shit,” Sera muttered. That wasn’t right. Things worked badly here. Or, well. They didn’t work at all, did they? Wasn’t his fault he was there, and she was here. 

Besides, the fancy stuff had looked delicious.

 _“Ugh,”_ she groaned, annoyed. Slamming her empty cup on the table, she pushed off the wall. If she hurried, she could track the stupid man down and take the whole plate as an apology. Sort of. Maybe. Not that _he_ cared about the plate either way.

In the Hall of Piss and Tits, she almost tripped over something. Sera blinked down at the person she hadn’t seen. Dagna, the Inquisition arcanist, was crouched on the floor, peering into a keyhole. She had an odd looking stone in one hand. 

Sera’s face cracked into a genuine smile. “Hello, you!”

Dagna hushed her frantically, looking both ways. She sighed in relief. “Boy. For a second there, I thought you blew my cover.”

Sera squatted next to her. “Cover?” she said. That was more like it. She knew all about cover. “If you need it, I can be a pair of eyes.” 

Dagna looked surprised but pleased at the offer. “Thank you. That would be… helpful.” She went back to doing whatever she’d been doing.

Sera peered up and down the long corridor. One passageway opened to the ballroom; the other to…. Well, a different room. A room not for balls, apparently. Sera grinned to herself. _No balls._ It was funny because she and Dagna had none between them.

A moment later, she asked, “What you need cover for, anyway?”

Dagna’s teeth were clamped tight. “Trying… to open… this _door….”_

“What for?”

“Because it’s locked.”

Sera snorted. “Nice.”

Dagna had pressed the stone against the door. It began to glow. Sera leaned away. Dagna was a dwarf, which meant no demons, but glowing could mean a _lot_ of things. Good or bad, depending. It was fine when Inquisitor Rich Tits did it. Less so when the Breach did it. Really, really bad when Red Templars did it. 

A click sounded. The stone went dark. Sera relaxed. 

“Got it,” Dagna said with a grin. She wiggled her eyebrows. “Want to see what’s inside?”

“Yeah!”

They entered the dark room together. There was a desk, a few chests, and one of those weird torch thingies that only mages could use. Sera wrinkled her nose at a painting of a man in a hat. As she stepped closer, something moved beneath her boot. She leaned down and picked it up. It was one of those tiny coins with a hole in the middle. 

“Stupid,” she muttered to herself. Typical. Real money wasn’t enough. No, the people up top had to make _fake_ money to throw into _fountains._ She glanced up at Dagna, who was rifling through the papers on the desk. “What’s that stone thing you’ve got, anyway?”

“It’s an enchanted rune based on a mixture of ancient dwarven and elven design,” Dagna explained. “It makes an arcane, physical force that’s about the size of a key. Then it presses down inside of a keyhole until the door opens. _Theoretically,_ it can open any lock in the world. But I needed to test it out.” She looked up with a grin. “I decided the Winter Palace would be the perfect place.”

“Any lock? _Brilliant,”_ Sera said, her eyes widening. 

Something caught Dagna’s eye. Her pretty face twisted into a frown. “Oh, dear,” she said. “These are about Gaspard.” She read more closely. “Wow. _Wow._ This is _way_ over my head. I’d better go find the Inquisitor. Or Leliana. Wait here.”

“Not going anywhere,” Sera said, spinning the fake coin between her fingers. As Dagna left, she glanced around the room. Books on every wall, but if she had to guess, not one of them had ever been opened. Probably chosen for their colors and heights and widths, too. Who cared what was inside?

Pissing nobs. 

“Hello?” a new voice asked.

Sera almost wet herself. She spun. Someone had caught her somewhere she wasn’t supposed to be. _Shit. Piss._

“Excuse me,” the woman said politely. “I didn’t mean to scare you.” Sera stayed frozen. The woman grew uncomfortable. “Um, have you seen the commander?”

Sera thought quick. No accent, but that didn’t mean _safe._ Plus, Dagna needed those papers for a reason. 

A distraction, then. 

Well. Nobles were easy to rattle, right? Just throw them off their game a little and they took ages to recover. 

Sera stuck her chin in the air. She stepped forward and held out the fake coin. The woman looked down, baffled, as she dropped into the woman’s hand. While she was still trying to figure things out, Sera bolted for the door. 

“Wait!” the woman cried, but Sera was already halfway to the ballroom. 

She dove into the crowd, trying to blend. The further she could lead the woman, the better. When she glanced over shoulder, she lost her footing, and almost fell over. Someone cried out in Orlesian, offended. Sera couldn’t help but laugh. Finally, she ducked behind a pillar and caught her breath.

Sera grinned. Her heart was racing. _Not so boring after all, yeah?_ she thought to herself. All thanks to Dagna and her fancy lockpick. Once they saved the pretty empress, she’d have to track the dwarf down again and apologize. Offer her services in the future. 

Nice to have an accomplice, sometimes. 

Eventually, she found herself a place to stand, out of everyone’s way. She tried to be a little nicer to the servants who wanted to spoil her. Didn’t like it, though. Things were just getting boring again when she saw Celene approach the edge of her dias. 

"My friends,” the pretty empress said, holding up her hands. “We have lost much. We have each seen a child, a lover, a friend, consigned to the flames. The darkness has closed in around us, but even now there is light. We must be that light. We must--”

“Ugh,” a new voice said. _“Maker._ Boring!”

To Sera’s surprise, _she_ hadn’t accidentally spoken out loud. Her mouth fell open. Inquisitor Rich Tits herself rose to the stage, plastered as a street sign, pushing the pretty empress away. Sera snorted, then cackled. She held two fingers in her mouth and whistled. This was more like it. 

“You tell ‘em, Quizzy!” she cried. 

“I’d like to say a few words, if nobody minds,” Trevelyan slurred, holding up her hand. Murmurs of surprise and horror rippled through the crowd. “I am Inquisitor Tahani…. Shahd Jamila Kir--.” She hiccuped. “Kir--.” Another hiccup. “Kiran Trevelyan. And it has _truly_ been an honor to have you all here.”

Sera laughed again. _Legend,_ this was. Trevelyan kept going. She was talking about her clothes or something when Cullen appeared beside her. 

“Inquisitor,” he said, gently touching her arm. “I think you’d better--”

“No! Let me speak. The people _want_ to hear me.”

Cullen looked like he’d swallowed a toad. Despite herself, Sera felt a stab of sympathy for the man. He fit the clothes, sure, but that didn’t mean he fit _in._ If anything, he might hate this place more than she did, because he had to go along with things.

She wondered how his night had gone. 

Not well, she guessed. 

Yeah. Probably badly. 

* * *

As he stood in the grand ballroom of the Winter Palace, surrounded by tittering Orlesian nobles in fine Orlesian clothing, Cullen Rutherdford began to wish he’d been too ill to attend the ball. 

He and Cassandra had discussed the possibility. He still suffered from episodes. Their frequency had decreased over the past few months, but he was well aware that travel and stress could disrupt his recovery. At Skyhold, he’d been sincere when he’d said that he hoped nothing would happen.

That changed the moment he was announced.

As he followed Cassandra from one dias to the other, he heard murmurs among the crowd. 

“So handsome,” one voice said.

“I wonder if he’s married?” another asked. 

“We will have to inquire.”

Cullen winced. While they’d waited for the Inquisitor, Leliana and Josephine had teased him about how fine he looked in his uniform, and how popular he’d be at the ball. He had paid them little heed. They enjoyed teasing him, even when the subject of their amusement was questionable. Leliana brought up her suspicions about him and Hawke as often as possible, for example. 

Even that evening, she’d said something. “Careful, Cullen,” she’d told him, smirking. “If you garner as much attention as I suspect, the Champion will become jealous.”

He’d doubted her sincerity. He was aware that some people found him… _attractive._ But he was the son of farmers, and Ferelden to boot. What could the Orlesian court possibly want with him?

Quite a lot apparently.

“Commander, are you married?”

“No,” he replied evenly. He crossed his arms and stared out over the ballroom. He’d endured an hour of questions like this, and suspected he had several more to go.

“Hm,” the man asking replied, his grin visible, but his eyes hidden by a mask. 

A woman broke in, stroking Cullen’s shoulder with a gloved finger. “Smile, commander!” she exclaimed. He flinched at her touch. “You are so handsome when you smile.”

The original man smirked. “He is just as handsome when he doesn’t.”

And so on. 

It was a nightmare.

Almost literally, in fact. The touching. The faceless bodies surrounding him. The murmured solicitations, all begging him for answers. It all felt _far_ too familiar. At moments, he found his mind drifting, his memories overtaking him. 

_Show me what you want._

A demon, wrapping its plump arms around his body. A low voice, whispering in his ear. Hands, covering his face, his eyes, his ears. Blocking out the sounds and sights, the screams and blood and corpses. 

His own hands? The demon’s? No way of knowing. 

_Show me what you want._

The nightmares always began that way. A simple request. And, every time, Cullen’s mind would open helplessly, like an errant child’s fist exposing a stolen sweet. Hidden temptations. Humiliating secrets not meant to be seen or heard by anyone. His innermost thoughts. His dreams. His desires. 

_Show me what you want._

A dark-haired girl, nearly as tall as he was, long since dead. 

A dark-haired girl he’d failed to protect. 

A dark-haired girl who would have kissed him, if only he wasn’t--

He was dragged back from the edge when he felt the unmistakable squeeze of a woman’s hand in a _most_ inappropriate place. He jumped. Shocked, he turned to stare at her. “Did you just… grab my bottom?” he asked, incredulous. 

“I could not help myself,” the woman giggled behind her mask.

Cullen grit his teeth. “I must insist that everyone keep their hands to themselves,” he said tightly.

“Ooh,” the woman said coyly. “So commanding.”

The rest of the night was more of the same. Brief rendezvouses with the Inquisitor and the rest of the council. Harassment from the court. Teasing from Leliana and Josephine. He knew he could put a stop to their jests if he spoke to Leliana, but that involved discussing a part of his life he had no wish to discuss. And at the Winter Palace, no less - in the lair of the world’s most well-oiled gossip spinners.

At least Trevelyan was winning. 

After the Inquisitor made her decision to save Celene, he found himself cornered - quite literally - by his admirers. He tried to drown them out, tried to keep his mind on the present, but felt himself being tugged back again. 

_Show me what you want._

Cullen clenched his jaw. A hand on his arm made him jump. He turned toward the offending noble.

 _“Please_ don’t touch--.” He stopped himself as he recognized the face. “Hawke,” he realized. 

“Commander,” she said. Her tone was uncharacteristically serious. “You’re needed by the, ah. Ambassador. At once. It’s very urgent.”

Cullen wasn’t sure if it was a ploy to help him escape, or if Josephine really needed something. He could not bring himself to care. “Very well,” he said. “Take me to her, please.”

Hawke did not let go of his arm. She dragged him through the crowded ballroom. Now that they were away from the tight ring of Orlesians, he noticed why he’d mistaken her for one. She was in some extravagant ball gown, green as moonlit grass, and wrapped in golden trimmings. It hugged her waist down to her hips. 

He’d never seen her in anything like it. Hawke’s armor and robes never hid her curves from the world, but nor did it emphasize them in quite the way this dress did. He couldn’t help but wonder if his hands could span her tiny waist. 

He realized he was staring. Forcing his gaze to the back of her head, he asked, “What are you wearing?” 

“Don’t ask,” she replied. She pulled him onto an empty balcony and glanced over her shoulder. No one had followed them. “I think I have a lead,” she told him in a whisper. She reached into her pocket and then handed him a caprice coin. “An elf with choppy blonde hair gave me _this._ She was in an Inquisition uniform. It could be a clue!” 

Cullen processed what she was saying. “An elf with choppy blonde hair?” He blinked at her in disbelief. “Sera? You think _Sera_ is involved somehow?”

“Oh, yeah,” Hawke said. _“Deeply_ involved. I bet she knows exactly what’s going on.”

“Hawke, that’s… very unlikely. Sera hates magic. And she’s not exactly subtle.” He lowered his voice. “Besides. We shouldn’t discuss this here.”

“Right,” Hawke said, glancing toward the ballroom. She seemed just as displeased with their current surroundings as he was. Somehow, that bolstered him. He felt a little less alone. 

“I heard what you did in Crestwood,” he said. He gave her a look. “That was rash.”

“What, the dragon?”

“All of it.” He shook his head. “What were you thinking?”

“You’re the one who told me to do something,” she replied. 

“Yes, but not….” He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I told you to clean a desk. Or sharpen a sword. Killing a dragon is a far cry from _chores.”_

Hawke crossed her arms. “I know this might come as a surprise, but we didn’t have a _desk_ in our abandoned smuggler’s cave.” She paused. “We had a table we used as a desk,” she conceded. “But it was already clean.”

“So you killed a dragon,” Cullen said. 

“It worked!” Hawke argued. “I felt better about myself.”

“You _could_ have died.”

“Cullen,” Hawke said. “I’ve killed dragons before. I killed the Arishok. I killed Meredith.”

 _“We_ killed Meredith,” Cullen reminded her.

Something flashed in Hawke’s eyes. Her gaze softened. “Right. We killed Meredith,” she agreed. “My point is you know I’m capable of handling myself.”

“It’s different now.”

“Why?”

“Because….” Cullen began. 

There were a dozen ways to finish that sentence. 

_Because I was too young to know better._

_Because you seemed more like a god than a person back then._

_Because I know how vulnerable you are._

_Because if you’re truly as damaged as I was, every mission you send yourself on will be a suicide mission._

Cullen let out his breath. “Because--,” he began again, but this time they were interrupted. Solas stepped onto the balcony, angrier than Cullen had ever seen him.

 _“Who_ gave the Inquisitor a flask of liquor?” Solas demanded, his narrowed eyes darting between them. 

In a matter of seconds, Hawke expression shifted from confusion, to shock, to guilt. “Ah, shit,” she said.

* * *

Hawke and Cullen followed Solas back into the ballroom, where Empress Celene was finally giving her big speech. Solas explained that he’d had a brief run in with Trevelyan, and she was in rare form. She was not even speaking coherently. She’d run off before he could persuade her to leave. 

Hawke chewed her thumb guiltily. 

“My advice,” Solas was saying as he led them through the crowd, “would be to find her as quickly as possible. We must prevent her from doing anything that puts the mission at--”

“Ugh!” a voice rang out over the crowd. _“Maker._ Boring!”

All three heads turned toward the dias just in time to see Trevelyan shove the Empress of Orlais hard enough to make her stumble. Trevelyan herself was stumbling, too. Hawke balled her hands into fists and winced. There was some strong shit in that flask. 

A whistle drew Hawke’s attention to the corner of the room. There, the blonde elf stood, a finger in each side of her mouth. Hawke gasped. 

“Cullen!” she hissed, pointing. “That’s the elf! That’s the blonde elf who gave me the--”

“You tell ‘em, Quizzie!” the elf shouted, cackling. She applauded. 

Hawke made a _‘whoops’_ face at Cullen. “Okay,” she said. “I no longer think she’s involved, and I’m pretty sure she was just messing with me.”

“I’d like to say a few words, if nobody minds,” Trevelyan went on. Around them, the Orlesians began murmuring. 

Solas gave Cullen a beseeching glare. _“Do something,”_ he snapped. 

“Yes,” Cullen said. “Right. Of course. I’ll just….” He rushed toward the dias. 

Trevelyan waved a hand in the air. “I am Inquisitor Tahani…. Shahd Jamila Kir--.” She hiccuped. “Kir--.” She hiccuped again. “Kiran Trevelyan. And it has _truly_ been an honor to have you all here. Even though I had to wear this _dreadful_ outfit tonight, instead of something far more befitting of my station, I wanted to say that I truly… _truly…_ am grateful for how gracious you’ve all been.”

Cullen reached the stage. “Inquisitor,” he said. “I think you’d better--”

“No! Let me speak.” Trevelyan swept her arms out broadly. “The people _want_ to hear me.” Cullen hesitated, looking conflicted.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Hawke muttered. Trevelyan had given him a direct order, and Cullen was going to follow it. It seemed the more things changed, the more they stayed the same. She pushed through the crowd. Solas followed. Once she was on the dias, she slowed, approaching Trevelyan like she would a startled colt. She touched the Inquisitor’s shoulder. “Hey there, gorgeous. How about we let the empress speak for a little bit?”

“Don’t you _dare_ touch me,” Trevelyan exclaimed, stumbling back. “You think just because I’m wearing _this,_ and you’re wearing--!” Before she could finish her thought, she tripped over a candelabra. Down she went, the candles crashing with her. One curtain on the side of dias went up in flames.

 _“Fenedhis,”_ Hawke heard Solas mutter behind her. 

Grand Duchess Florianne appeared next to Celene. “As you can see, the Inquisition could never bring Orlais the stability we deserve,” Florianne said loudly, looking smug. “Neither can my cousin. But _my brother_ can.”

Hawke’s horrified gaze shifted from the fire to the knife in the Grand Duchess’s hands. “No!” she exclaimed as she dove at the empress. 

But she was too late. 

Florianne stabbed Celene through the belly. The empress gasped and fell to her knees. She struggled to pull the dagger out. Her strength was fading. After one rattling breath, she collapsed on the floor, dead. 

The ballroom erupted into screams and shouts of alarm. Several guards rushed forward. They were killed or held back by men who appeared in harlequin masks. Trevelyan tried to climb to her feet, but she ended up toppling over. 

“Florianne,” Gaspard asked, alarmed. “What have you done?”

“Don’t act coy, Gaspard,” Florianne replied. “It is just as we planned. Now you will be emperor!”

“Me?” Gaspard asked. “Have you gone mad?”

It was Cullen who replied. “She has,” he said, stepping forward. “She did not do this for you, Gaspard. She did this for Corypheus. We have proof, in the gardens.”

Florianne sneered. Two Inquisition guards ran to apprehend her. She drew two daggers and slit one’s throat. The other, she stabbed in the chest.

“For Corypheus!” she exclaimed. She ran toward one of the balconies. “Kill the rest of them!” she instructed over her shoulder. Hawke heard Cullen draw his sword, and saw more harlequins appear. 

“She is escaping!” Solas exclaimed, frantic. 

Hawke growled. She gathered up her many, many skirts in her hands and ran as fast as she could for the balcony. She reached it just in time to see Florianne jump over the balustrade. Without hesitating, she launched herself over as well. She used a push of arcane energy to break her fall. She landed in the well-manicured gardens of the Winter Palace, and spotted her target.

Florianne saw, or sensed, that she was being pursued. She made it into a gated area, and then stopped at the edge of a fountain. With a smooth motion, she ripped off her dress. Beneath it was elaborate scout armor. From her discarded skirts, she drew a bow and quivers. She drew an arrow and shot it at Hawke.

Hawke ducked. The arrow whizzed by her head. She raised both hands, letting them snap and sparkle with electricity. “I knew I should have brought a staff,” she muttered through gritted teeth.

Then she threw herself at Florianne.

* * *

The harlequins were slaughtered. The ballroom was a madhouse. Cullen pushed through the fleeing revellers to the far balcony, where Hawke and Florianne had disappeared. He reached it. From a distance, he could make out Hawke, battling Florianne alone. She fought with no staff, raising barriers and raining down fire and lightning on the Grand Duchess. 

“Maker’s breath,” he said. For a moment, he could only watch, amazed by how the violet sparks of energy ran up and down her arms, illuminating the night. He turned. He saw he was not the only person who’d come out to see the battle. The soldier nearest to him, he grabbed by the shoulder. “Get down there! Aid the Champion!”

“At once, sir,” the man replied with a nod.

“All of you,” Cullen said to the soldiers who’d gathered. _“Go.”_

There was a flurry of movement. Solas emerged from the doorway. The mage had a grim, hard look on his face. Cullen did not need to give him an order. Instead, he simply nodded - a nod Solas returned before following the others. 

Cullen looked back at the battle. Hawke was aflame now - for a moment Cullen’s heart stopped, and he thought all was lost. But then she loosened the blast of fire at Florianne. It had been her own attack. He breathed in. 

Minutes passed. It felt like hours. He wondered where his men were - should he have ordered them to jump over the balcony, too? But then Hawke threw a bolt of energy at Florianne when she was standing on the edge of the fountain. Floiranne fell - she landed oddly, not able to catch herself. 

Several seconds passed. She did not rise.

Cullen realized it was over. Hawke had won. 

Just then, the first of his soldiers appeared on the grounds. 

* * *

The aftermath was a blur. 

Cullen looked over their losses. More than they’d planned for, unfortunately. Given how badly things _could_ have gone, he would mourn the men, but count his blessings. He relieved the majority of their guards for the rest of the evening. Gaspard offered to bring in some of his own to assist. 

The ball resumed. The band started playing again. Cullen should not have been surprised, and yet he reached a new level of disgust for the Orlesian nobility. Their empress lay not two hours dead, and here they were, celebrating. 

Trevelyan was taken to her rooms. The council agreed they’d need to talk to her in the morning. She was in no condition to be scolded. With how out of character her behavior had been, Cullen had a feeling she would be more ashamed of herself than anyone else. 

“At least this was a victory for the Inquisition,” Leliana observed.

Cullen frowned. “In a manner of speaking.”

After he left Josephine and Leliana, he went to find Hawke. 

He found her on an empty balcony. She was leaning against the balustrade, staring up at the stars. Despite everything that had happened, she looked calm. He felt as though he were intruding. Still, he could not help but stare. The cut of her jaw against her neck - the way a few pale strands of hair hung around her face - the gleam of her skin in the moonlight. 

He knew this was an image that would not escape him soon.

The magic of the moment could not last. _Magic._ An odd thing to think at a time like this, about a woman like her. 

He cleared his throat.

She turned. “Hey there, Curly,” she said, giving him a crooked grin. 

From Varric, the nickname rankled, like an old set of armor that did not quite fit. Somehow, from Hawke, he didn’t mind it. _Probably because of the note,_ he told himself. 

“Good evening,” he said. “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

“Not at all,” she said, looking back at the stars. She took a sip from the wine glass in her hand, then grimaced. She held it out to him. “Would you like some?” she asked. “I think I’ve had enough.”

He almost refused, then shrugged, accepting it. He took a long swallow. As he did, he noticed a bandage on her forearm. “Are you injured?” 

She glanced at the bandage. “Oh. Not badly. Grazed by an arrow. I doubt it will even leave a scar.” She made a face. “I couldn’t heal it myself. No mana left, I’m afraid.”

 _Of course._ And she would not have thought to bring lyrium tonight. The memory of the fight came back to him.

“You were amazing,” he said before he could think better of it. That brought Hawke’s gaze back to him. She raised an eyebrow, amused. He winced. “I mean… the fighting. The way you controlled the battle. It was truly incredible.”

She laughed. “Has it really been so long since you last saw me fight?”

“This was different,” he insisted. “You didn’t even have a staff.”

“Ah,” she said. Her smile grew rueful. “Yes, well. Mages can’t put down their swords, remember?”

He did. He took another swallow of wine, looking away. “I know I advised you not to linger on regret,” he said. “That said, there are… _several_ things I wish I could take back about Kirkwall.”

“Just several?” Hawke asked dryly. 

He gave a humorless huff. “Many, perhaps.” He met her gaze. “For what it’s worth, I am sorry.”

Hawke gave him a searching look. He thought she might say something snide, but she simply straightened. “I know.” She held up her hand. “Would you care for a dance?”

And perhaps it was the wine, or the music, or the memory of her sparkling in the moonlight, but Cullen found that there was nothing he wanted more than to dance with Eleanor Hawke right then. To place his hand around her gilded waist, to pull her close to him, to spin her graceful body across the floor--

_Show me what you want._

Cullen took a step back. “I--,” he stuttered. He shook his head, clearing his throat. His heart hammered in his chest. “I’d better not.”

Hawke stood with her hand raised for a beat. She let it fall. Her expression was still friendly, but a light dimmed in her eyes. “I understand,” she said with a smile.

 _You don’t,_ he thought, but he could not speak the words. They opened doors that he wished to remain closed. He bit his tongue. 

“Good evening, commander,” Hawke said, rather formally. She brushed past him without waiting for a reply. 

Sighing, Cullen closed his eyes and pinched his nose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew. That one was a doozy. A party, a fight, drinking, pining, _four_ POVs.... 
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoyed! As always, let me know if you catch any errors :)


	8. Chapter 8

**_Excerpt from Solas’s Journal_ **

_Halamshiral, 9:41 Dragon._

_Attempt 2_

_I find myself at a loss for words. I never imagined Trevelyan could be capable of such behavior. Celene lies dead once more, only this time, it was not a calculated action based on hours of discussion. It was the result of the Inquisitor’s poor choices._

_I suppose it does not matter who ends up in charge of Orlais, or why. The important thing is that the empire is stable. The Inquisition is still seen influential. The ambassador believes she can salvage the Inquisitor’s reputation._

_She certainly has her work cut out for her._

_Hawke and Warden Alistair leave soon for the Western Approach. Then, on to Adamant. I suspect that one of them will need to remain in the Fade, in Warden Tabris’s place. The other will be sent to Weisshaupt, as Hawke was._

_Truth be told, despite finding myself in Hawke’s debt, I am eager to be rid of both of them._

  


_\--Solas_

* * *

  


After Hawke killed Florianne, Gaspard thanked her in an impromptu ceremony. She found a bandage for her injured arm. A dozen dukes and duchesses gushed over her - well, gushed over _‘Serah ‘Awke’_ at least - while Varric stood in the corner, smirking. She shot him a glare. If he was even _thinking_ of a sequel, he had another thing coming. 

The attention became overwhelming. As soon as she could, she escaped to an empty balcony off the side of the ballroom. Behind her, the music began again, and she heard the sounds of people readying to dance. Hawke pursed her lips. She was in no mood to rejoin the celebrations. The first ball she’d been to in years, and she hadn’t even gotten a chance to participate.

Mother would have been _so_ disappointed.

The garden was quiet. Her ears rang in the near silence. A breeze blew past, rustling her giant skirt. She could feel her bare arms break into goosebumps, chilled, but her blood was still too hot from the fight for her to mind. She took a sip of her wine and looked upward. The sky was clear. As she stared at the stars, it occurred to her that Halamshiral was not that far from the desert. She’d spent a number of sleepless nights seeing many of these exact same patterns, tracing figures in the dotted lights. Not knowing the constellations herself, she’d created her own. There was one in particular she looked for - a bird she liked to fancy was a hawk. She found it toward the north. 

A thought occurred to her. What did the night sky look like in Kirkwall? Try as she might, she found she could not remember.

She wondered, then, if she’d ever really looked up. 

A soft noise made her turn. Cullen stood in the doorway. He was stiff in his pressed Inquisition uniform. There was something of the old Knight-Captain in him. For some reason, that made her fond, today. 

“Hey there, Curly,” she said. 

His gaze dropped briefly. “Good evening. I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

“Not at all,” she said, looking back at the stars. She tried another sip of wine, but found she was reaching her limits. A hair of the dog helped, sure; the _whole_ dog was probably overkill. Holding the glass out to him, she asked, “Would you like some? I think I’ve had enough.”

He accepted it. He caught sight of her bandage. “Are you injured?” he asked, concerned. 

“Oh,” she said. “Not badly. Grazed by an arrow. I doubt it will even leave a scar.” She winced at it. “I couldn’t heal it myself. No mana left, I’m afraid.”

There was a pause. “You were amazing,” he said suddenly. Hawke’s gaze snapped up to his. By the widening of his eyes, he was as surprised by his own words as she was. Color crept up his neck. He looked away, flustered. “I mean… the fighting. The way you controlled the battle. It was truly incredible.”

She laughed. “Has it really been so long since you last saw me fight?”

“That was different,” Cullen said. “You didn’t even have a staff this time.”

Her amusement soured slightly. “Yes, well. Mages can’t put down their swords, remember?”

Cullen’s face fell. His neck turned even redder. Hawke looked at her hands, tapping the balustrade. In her peripheral vision, she watched him take a gulp of wine. 

“I know,” he said after a beat, “that I advised you not to linger on regret. That said, there are… several things I wish I could take back about Kirkwall.”

It wasn’t quite _‘sorry’,_ but she knew Cullen Rutherford. He wanted to apologize. This was about as close as he was going to get. “Just several?” she said wryly. 

He huffed. “Many, perhaps,” he said softly. Their eyes met. “For what it’s worth, I _am_ sorry.”

Hawke’s fingers stilled. Perhaps she did not know this Cullen Rutherford as well as she thought she did. She smiled at him. “I know.” She held out her hand. “Would you care for a dance?”

A flash of horror went across his face as he looked at her hand. He took a step back, clearing his throat, and shook his head. “I…. I’d better not.”

 _Oh._ She paused, letting the understanding and disappointment wash over her. “I understand,” she said as evenly as she could manage. Giving him a cool smile, she added, “Good evening, commander.” She made her way to the door without waiting for him to respond. 

She took a deep breath and felt the corset restrict her lungs. The rejection hurt. More than she’d expected it to - which was stupid. _Incredibly_ stupid. She’d been fooled by him speaking of her magic as if it had been some sort of miracle - something to be admired. By the glow of the night sky. By the shock of his apology. She knew he’d been sincere. He was sorry for how he’d treated her in Kirkwall. 

That did not suddenly make him a different man. 

He still feared mages. 

And after a display like tonight’s, why would _he_ want to touch _her?_

Fucking stupid. The reason he could place her so high on a pedestal was the same reason he’d been able to trample over her and everyone like her in Kirkwall. The same reason it had taken him so long to see Meredith for who she truly was. 

_Mages aren’t people._

She needed space. This wasn’t his fault. He was still willing to help her, and she could not jeopardize that. She just couldn’t see it as something it wasn’t. 

A friendship.

“There you are,” Alistair’s voice said. Hawke spun as he emerged from one of the doorways. “I’ve been looking all over for you.” He pointed his thumb over his shoulder. “That stunt you pulled in the garden? Impressive stuff. I’ve never seen magic done like that.”

Hawke tried not to grimace. Five minutes ago, it would have sounded like a compliment. Now it was just her reminding another templar why circles were a thing. “Thanks,” she said anyway.

“Listen, Gaspard is offering us rooms for the night,” he went on. 

“Really?”

“Yes,” Alistair said. “Giving someone a crown tends to put them in a good mood, as it turns out.” He winced. “Well. Most of the time. Anyway, I took the liberty of accepting. Varric has some people bringing our stuff up from the inn.”

Hawke would have preferred the inn, but the allure of a bed less than fifty feet away was too tempting to turn down. Besides, it was an excuse not to go back to the ballroom. “Their soap better smell good,” she threatened.

“This is an Orlesian palace,” Alistair told her. “I’m sure their entire bathing chamber smells like a florist shop.” He gave her a sidelong glance. “I spoke with Leliana. The, um, situation with the Wardens. It sounds like it’s getting worse. Her people tracked down the ritual tower I’ve heard of, and they’ve seen Tevinter soldiers going in and out.”

“Vints!” Hawke exclaimed, happy to focus on a new target. “Wonderful. Of course they’re involved.”

“She wants the two of us to take a look ourselves.”

“Sounds like fun. When do we leave?”

“That was my question for you, actually. I’m ready when you are.”

She didn’t even hesitate. “Tomorrow morning, then. Break of dawn.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You don’t want to rest? At all?”

“We rested last night. We can rest on the road.”

“And….” He cleared his throat. “No unfinished business to wrap up? Nothing to talk about with Cullen? I mean, you barely saw him, and I know you wanted to--”

“Nope. Zilch. _Nada,”_ Hawke said. 

“... is everything alright?”

Hawke smiled at him. “Everything is fine.”

Alistair gave her a doubtful look, then shrugged. “Alright. If you say so. Tomorrow morning it is.”

* * *

“Truly, I cannot express _how_ sorry I am,” Trevelyan was saying the next morning, as Cullen gripped his nose. They were with Leliana and Josephine in an ornate basement room they’d been given by Emperor Gaspard. “I am _deeply_ ashamed of myself.”

Cullen was barely listening. His mind kept drifting to the previous evening. It was the Inquisitor’s fourth attempt at an apology to the council, and while he appreciated the sentiment, there were other matters to attend to. 

“Honestly, if I were you, I’d fire me on the spot,” she went on. “Such a lack of decorum…! And in Halamshiral, no less!” 

Josephine offered Trevelyan a tense smile. “That won’t be necessary. Leliana discovered a rumor that you were _pretending_ to be intoxicated in order to force Florianne’s hand. We are doing what we can to ensure that becomes the most common interpretation of events before word leaves the city.”

Cullen hadn’t slept well. He’d had disturbing dreams. At first, familiar images plagued him, made worse by the ball. Masked figures tried to tempt him with seductive words and glances. Demons took the form of figures from his past. Kinloch grew around him, its endless walls splattered with drying blood. 

Then an explosion rattled the building, and the stones gave way. He was in the Gallows. The masked strangers became metal statues, copper with red flames. Meredith stood amongst them, her eyes glowing. Cullen could feel the weight of his old armor on his shoulders. Blood dripped off his chin. He reached for his sword.

Before he could move, lightning flashed. Veins of blue sparks shot up from the ground. Meredith cried out and fell to her knees. Her features hardened. She froze in place, no longer a woman. The statues around her clattered as they fell apart. One person stood amongst the rubble, gleaming in her armor, the light of a burning city behind her. 

Eleanor Hawke smiled at him. _“Would you care for a dance?”_

He’d woken with a start. Now, he could not help but feel like a fool. Hawke had worked hard to open herself up to him, to let him help her, and he’d risked it all because of his own issues and insecurities. 

He needed this meeting to be over. He had to find Hawke and apologize before things got worse. 

“And I want to apologize to the Champion,” Trevelyan said, as if reading his thoughts. He glanced up at the mention. Trevelyan’s face grew even guiltier. “She’s been nothing but helpful, and I’ve treated her _horribly.”_ Leliana and Josephine exchanged a glance; Cullen knew neither of them would disagree. “I promise I’ll do better, starting today. Where can I find her?”

“Ah,” Josephine said awkwardly. “Not at the palace, unfortunately. She left with Alistair this morning.”

Cullen’s head jerked toward her. _“Left?”_

Leliana eyed him. “That is correct.”

“You mean she’s gone?” Trevelyan asked, dismayed. 

“Yes. They are on their way to an old ritual tower in the west. There’s been unusual activity. We have reason to believe that whatever has happened to the Wardens is related.”

“We did make sure they were adequately supplied,” Josephine assured them. Cullen closed his eyes, frustrated. “They will notify us of whatever they find there.”

Trevelyan slumped over the table in front of them, sighing. “Well, then. The apology will have to wait until the next time I see her.”

Cullen silently agreed.

He hoped it would not be too long. 

* * *

A month passed with no word from Hawke. Cullen grew worried. This time, the Champion did not write. Alistair kept them updated, of course, but there were no secret letters that Leliana passed to him with increasingly suspicious stares - no teasing, no surprising openness from her, no recipes for stew. 

No requests for his help.

The thought that he may have broken whatever tangled thing had grown between them beyond that damned note hurt. He could not help but wonder if she was okay. He hoped that she understood the incredible feat she’d performed at the Winter Palace - that she took pride in the fact that she’d saved an empire. Concern that he’d done something to shake her confidence sat in his stomach, aching. 

Eventually, he had to acknowledge it was not just concern for her. He did not know Alistair well, but he suspected that the man would reach out if something was truly wrong. She was probably fine. No, the aching concern in his stomach was about something else. 

He may have lost her. 

He knew she would continue to work with him. Hawke excelled at many things, but working with those she did not like may have topped the list. Her motley crew in Kirkwall included people Cullen would never expect to associate with an apostate. For Maker’s sake, _he’d_ worked with her six years. They’d been colleagues. And it was clear how she’d felt about him then. 

But when he thought of the casual smile she’d thrown him on the balcony at Halamshiral - her lips turning upward in the moonlight - and the way it had disappeared, he worried he’d gained a rare trust from her, and that now it was gone. He worried that they would go back to being _colleagues._ That he’d lost whatever chance at having what he increasingly suspected the other Cullen had. Her admiration. Her respect. At a bare minimum, her friendship. 

His dreams changed. 

* * *

Word finally came from the Western Approach. According to the note, Alistair and Hawke had noticed Wardens activity in the tower. When they went in to investigate, they were attacked by possessed Wardens and demons, all controlled by a magister by the name of Livius Erimond. Erimond was able to flee during the chaos. 

Alistair tracked him to a fortress called Adamant. From what Hawke and Alistair could see, this appeared to be the main site of the growing demon army mentioned in the dark future. Hawke also warned that there was something strange going on with the Veil, though she could not be more specific. They recommended the full strength of the Inquisition army come at once.

Within a week, Cullen was on the road with the Inquisitor and the majority of his troops. 

* * *

“Hawke!” 

The sound of her name echoed over the chaos of an army preparing for battle. Carts of supplies creaked past her on all sides, soldiers clanged as they marched in columns, and voices called out orders, and requests, and directions.

Hawke stepped out of the long line of soldiers. She turned, looking for the source of the call. Alistair went with her. Cullen appeared a moment later, silver and maroon emerging from a sea of green and brown. 

“Commander,” she greeted. Cullen looked frazzled. She couldn’t blame him. This battle would be a major turning point in the Inquisition’s fight against Corypheus. She glanced back at Adamant. “Tell us where we can best help.”

“Where you can best--,” Cullen started, surprised. He glanced between them. “You’re both going in there?”

Alistair crossed his arms. “No, of course not! Why would ever go in there?” He rolled his eyes. “We thought we’d stay and have a bit of tea. Watch the whole thing from a distance. Maybe eat some of those spiced nuts they sell in the Orlesian theaters.”

“But… you’ve done so much already.”

“Right,” Hawke said dryly. “You should definitely just send in the _inexperienced_ people. Because that’s how war works.”

Cullen looked between them again. “Fine,” he said. “I won’t lie. If you’re truly up for it, I need every fighter I can get.” He gestured to one of the passing columns. “Go with Lieutenant Farrow. The blonde elf in the front. His team will try to secure the battlements for the archers.” Hawke and Alistair nodded. They both began to head back into the crowd, but Cullen grabbed Hawke’s arm first. “Wait.”

Hawke froze. Her eyes flicked to his hand and then back to his face. “Yes?”

“Hawke,” he said. “I wanted to apologize.”

She stiffened. “Is this really the time or the place?”

Cullen did not let go. “I would have thought you, of all people, would appreciate inappropriate timing,” he said flatly. Hawke couldn’t help but snort. Cullen relaxed a fraction. “Really, Hawke, the reason I said no on the balcony is that I--”

She pulled her arm away before he could finish, though she did give him a smile. Two apologies from Cullen Rutherford in a row. And he acknowledged that he’d done something wrong. Things certainly had _changed_. 

“Look. I would accept. But I’m rather attached to being alive.” He looked confused. She lowered her voice. “Confessions and apologies before a battle are bad luck,” she said. “Everyone knows that.”

“Ah,” he said. He looked relieved. “Well. Um. In that case, I rescind my apology until further notice.”

“Thank you,” she said, walking backwards toward the crowd. “And that better be enough. If it’s not and I _do_ die, I warn you - my ghost will haunt you for the rest of your days.” With that, she spun and cut into the crowd, looking for Alistair. She heard Cullen’s huff of laughter behind her and grinned to herself.

 _It’s a good thing I’m not superstitious,_ she thought to herself.

* * *

An hour later, she was cursing Cullen fucking Rutherford and his stupid fucking apology under her breath as she and Trevelyan killed what felt like their twentieth pack of shades. The Fade, as it turned out, was a lot different in real life than in a Keeper induced dream. Alistair and Varric were still twenty paces behind them, downhill, fighting a rage demon. 

_“Fuck!”_ Hawke cried as tore through the last shade with her staff. She shook it off and strapped it on her back. “I can’t believe I’m in the fucking Fade.” She glared at Trevelyan. “For the record, this one’s on you.”

Trevelyan sighed. She slipped her sword into her scabbard. “Yes. I… realize you might bear some resentment toward me, due to my recent behavior. Very justly. Allow me to assure you, I’ve been _meaning_ to discuss things since Halamshiral. I just never found a chance to stop and apolog--”

“Nope,” Hawke interrupted, waving her hand. “No you don’t. I’m not falling for that one again.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The last apology landed me in the _Fade._ The next one might kill me.”

Trevelyan stared at her for a moment. “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

Hawke opened her mouth, but before she could explain, another figure crested the hill. She groaned. “Here comes trouble,” she told the Inquisitor.

They both pulled out their weapons. Then Trevelyan tilted her head, frowning. “Wait. Is that… an elf?”

Hawke narrowed her eyes. Sure enough, a tall brunette elven woman approached with two weapons drawn. Her long brown hair was in a side part, and her large hazel eyes flicked between them. She stopped five feet away from them.

“You don’t seem like spirits,” the woman said warily. 

“We’re not,” Trevelyan said. 

The woman studied them. “How can I be sure?”

Hawke rolled her eyes. “I don’t fucking know. How do I know _you’re_ not a demon?”

The woman began to grin. “Thank the freaking Maker. About time, you idiots!” She strapped her sword and dagger to her back and then, to Hawke’s great surprise, gathered Trevelyan in a hug. “I knew you'd come back, Tahani.” She pulled back and grew more serious. “Did you bring lyrium? Please tell me you’ve brought lyrium.”

“I’m sorry, but… who _are_ you?” Trevelyan asked.

The woman held out her arms. “It’s me!” she exclaimed. “Have I really changed that much?” At Trevelyan’s blank stare, she turned back to Hawke. “Come on. Hawke?”

Hawke narrowed her eyes. “How do you know our names?” 

By that point, Alistair and Varric had caught up. Alistair’s mouth fell open. “Mindy!” he exclaimed, striding forward.

The woman looked past Hawke and her eyebrows shot up. “Alistair! Fuck, at least _someone_ isn't acting weird.” They embraced each other briefly. He patted her on the shoulder. “How about you? Did you bring lyrium?”

His brow furrowed. “You know I never carried the stuff.”

Mindy blew out a breath, disappointed. “Yes, but you saw how much I relied on it during the Blight, and--. Never mind. It was worth a shot. I thought if you were here to rescue me, you’d figure I was out of it by now. It's fine, I'll have some soon enough.”

“To rescue you? From what, the Fade?” She nodded. “I didn’t even know you were here. We didn't exactly come on purpose.”

Mindy shot a glare at Trevelyan. “She didn’t tell you what happened to me?”

“Me?” the Inquisitor exclaimed, lost. “How I was I supposed to know?”

“Because you’re the one who left me here,” Mindy explained. Trevelyan looked at her, aghast. Mindy shook her head. “I don’t understand,” she said to Alistair. “How _did_ you get here, then?”

“Um, this is the Herald,” Alistair said, pointing to Trevelyan. “You know. The one with the magic hand.” He extended and retracted his fingers a few times for emphasis. “It does--. Veily things. We fell off a fortress during a battle and she ripped a hole in the Veil. Or something. You know. Standard stuff. Now we’re trying to get back.” He gestured to Mindy. “How’d _you_ get in, is the real question? Not another Sloth demon I hope.”

“No,” Mindy said, looking increasingly confused. “I… I got in the same way. The fortress. Was it Adamant?” 

“Yes,” Alistair said slowly.

“And Corypheus’s dragon showed up. And it killed Clarel, and then the bridge collapsed.”

“How did you know about that?” Alistair asked, flabbergasted. “It _just happened.”_

“Because I was there,” Mindy said. “Except… except that was _ages_ ago. I’ve been stuck here for at least five years, by my count.” 

Hawke’s blood began to grow hot. Her mind was whirring. The torn page in her pocket was burning against her clothes. 

Mindy glanced back at the Inquisitor. “You really don’t know who I am?”

“I’m afraid not,” Trevelyan said. “And let me tell you, I have an eye for faces. I once spotted that Duke Sandral Anaxas’s twin sons had swapped dance partners from across a crowded ballroom.” She lowered her voice. “Most people think they're identical, but they just look remarkably similar.”

Mindy looked at Hawke. “And you?”

Hawke was shaken from her reverie. She fixed her eyes on Mindy’s face. “Well. I can’t say I recognize you, but based on context, I think I can guess.” She stuck out her chin. “You’re Mindaera Tabris, the Hero of Ferelden.”

“The Hero of Ferelden!” Trevelyan exclaimed. 

“And if what you’re saying is true,” Hawke continued, leaning on her staff, “then we have all been through this before.” She turned to Trevelyan. “I think the Inquisition has another time travel problem on its hands.”

“Well, shit,” Varric said. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I know it's been a while, and I'm afraid it might be a while again. But I promise I'm still working on this (and immensely enjoying the new season!)
> 
> A bit of a repeat at the beginning from Eleanor's POV. The Good Place loves re-doing scenes with slightly more context, so that will pop up sometimes in this fic.


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